


let your demons run

by isawet



Series: black rebel jackets [2]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anya-Centric, Backstory, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-12
Updated: 2017-04-14
Packaged: 2018-08-14 16:45:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 46,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8021434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isawet/pseuds/isawet
Summary: Anya-centric, companion to 'beat the devil's tattoo'Onya was born in a river.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> oof here we go, trying out a new pairing. companion to beat the devil's tattoo
> 
> all the thanks to my smurf *hearteyes*
> 
> addition: rich text editor makes me want to die I promise it's back to html for the rest, please excuse the format on this chapter

Onya was born in a river. That’s the story her _nomon_ told her, anyway, that she felt that sharp, rolling pain and waded into the river that ran just a short distance from their house; that it was still and quiet that night and her mother knew, just knew the _gaun_ was welcoming her baby girl.

Onya had light hair and bright eyes, and the boys in her village sang sing-song jeers about how her mother must have snuck out into the tri and built a fire with another man, until she picked up a stick and learned, through slow painful experience, how to make them run before her shadow.

//

“ _You must be joking_ ,” Onya hisses, looking at these _branwoda_ girls, all soft hands and clean faces. 

“ _I won’t have this argument again_.” Leksa’s voice is firm, unbudging, and Onya snarls before stomping down the hall. At least, she supposes, an intruder will have to kill his way through her new housemates before he makes it to Leksa.

Onya stands in her new room and feels the carpet between her toes, the sun streaming through the window. She lifts a hand and watches the light play across her skin.

//

Onya met Leksa when she was _ten-fai_ years old, while she was training at the capital to be a _gona_ , join the _Heda’s_ Guard. She’s a year away from speaking her _swega_ , pledging allegiance, when she sees the _natblida_ training in the courtyard. Leksa is the smallest, the skinniest, and Onya remembers seeing her and thinking she won’t last a second in the conclave, that little girl with the scrappy knees and too much hair. 

“The _natblida_ ,” Indra tells her, and Onya nods at her _fos_. “One of them will lead us all, one day.” Indra smiles at her, a rare sight; Onya has just won the _youngon_ trainee tournaments, unarmed and armed, and Indra has been smirking nonstop, pleased at the success by proxy. They stand at the balcony and Onya’s ribs are cracked, her body bruised. She thinks her arm may be broken. She has never felt so good in all her life.

Indra pauses by the edge of a balcony, looking out at the grounds. “One day soon you will have the honor of a _seken natblida_.”

Onya frowns. “Are you not satisfied?” she asks, the last trace of teenage insecurity. “I am not _natblida_.”

“You have never once disappointed me.” Indra grips her shoulder, tight. “You may not be special but you are strong, Onya. Never forget it.”

//

Klark’s keys are on the armchair, and Onya smirks a little to herself when she sees them. Leksa doesn’t like her to follow her to classes, not anymore, and Onya has grown to enjoy the time to herself, the house empty of chatter and noise. She runs in the mornings, listening to her feet thump on the pavement, the vague echo of Leksa’s music leaking from her headphones, and sits crosslegged in their room while Leksa showers. 

She tries to meditate, reaching out--this world, the _skaikru_ world, slaps her back into her body. It’s too loud, the cars and the tall buildings made of glass and metal and the language Onya still struggles with. Onya misses the stone buildings, the miles of grass. She misses the _tri_ and the rivers and hearing her name said correctly; every time she hears the name her nomon gave her in _gonasleng_ , butchered on a _skaikru_ tongue, she wants to scream so badly she can taste it, rage in the back of her throat burning like the flame in Leksa’s spine.

//

Onya is _ten-sen_ when she takes Leksa as her _seken_. Leksa is still the smallest, the skinniest, but Onya watches her take down a boy three years older and twice as big, her lips pulled back over her teeth, the way her breathing stays calm even as she rages in the middle of battle. 

“ _Em_ ,” Onya grunts, when Indra arches an eyebrow at her. 

Indra looks at Onya, surprised. “ _Bilaik gada_?”

“ _Sha_.”

“This is great _koma_ , to choose a _seken_. Are you sure?”

Onya looks at her former _fos_. “I am.”

 

Leksa, Onya learns, is smart. She’s quick, she’s bright, her _gonasleng_ is better than Onya’s. It’s two weeks before Onya praises her, and Leksa frowns to hear it. “I don’t care for false promises,” she says. “I want to be the best.” There is a cut, high on her cheek, from when she wrested the sword from Onya’s hand, a twisting move that caught her completely by surprise, learned from watching Onya fight and learning, always learning. There’s another laceration on her left wrist that will scar faintly, where Onya cut her with the small dagger she keeps in her boot. It was shocking, a _gada_ her lesser by _fai_ years, disarming her, winning a sparring bout. Now Leksa is standing here, frowning. She believes that Onya threw their match, to boost her confidence. 

Onya clasps her shoulder, careful. It is the first time she has touched Leksa. She feels delicate under Onya’s calloused palm, small boned and underweight. She trembles with the force of herself; dedicated, intelligent, lethal. “You will be _Heda_ ,” Onya says, and believes it.

//

Onya wakes when Leksa’s phone buzzes on the desk. She lies still, listens to Leksa murmur, curse, poke at her phone, and murmur again. “ _I’m going to pick up Klark._ ”

Onya snorts. “ _Let the prisa handle her own problems._ ”

“ _Don’t be cruel, Onya. I’m taking your car._ ”

 

Onya doesn’t sleep well when Leksa is far from her, and not at all when she knows Leksa is so near. She tucks her own phone in her pocket and walks silently through the dark house. She climbs the tree in the backyard and settles against the thickest branch, watching the stars wink through the leaves. Her phone vibrates against her hips and she answers it, letting the click be her greeting.

“ _I’ll be back tomorrow_.”

“ _How late?_ ”

Leksa hesitates. “ _We’ll see_.”

“ _Do you need me_?”

“ _No_.”

“ _Text me your address_.”

“ _Sha_ ,” Leksa agrees. She hesitates. “ _It is only for a night, Onya. Nothing has changed_.”

Onya hangs up. She dozes, for a while, until the birds light on the branches around her and start to sing. She chitters at them, so they don’t scare when she moves. The light in the garage is on, and she peeks, curious. Reivon is asleep on a workbench, a wrench dangling precariously from one hand, a still burning torch lit in the other. The door creaks when Onya enters.

“You’re touching my things,” Reivon grunts when Onya takes the fire from her fingers. 

“ _I’m saving you from yourself._ ”

Reivon hefts--something, Anya doesn’t recognize it--and waves it through the air, vague, her eyes still shut. “I don’t like it when people touch my things. I like things in very specific places.”

Onya puts the torch aside and catches Reivon by the wrist, firm. She twists, and catches the tool as it falls from Reivon’s limp fingers. Reivon curses, wakes up enough to glare.

“ _Shof op. You will like not having a house on fire more._ ”

“Even I know _shofop_.”

“Then listen.” Onya tosses the tool aside, clanging hard on the concrete. She turns. 

“Not going to tell me to go to bed?” Reivon’s hair is half out of her ponytail, her eyes faintly swollen from sleep. When she yawns her whole face contorts, her nose wrinkles. Her fingers are slim and stained, grease marks back to her elbows and around her jaw. She is, Onya supposes, attractive, probably. She is, definitely, the most intelligent person Onya has ever met.

“You may do what you like,” Onya tells her. “What concern of it is mine?”

//

Tris was the one to call them _skaikru_ , in the shelter where she and Leksa and Kostia slept in the same bed and Onya sat against the wall next to them, dozing and keeping watch. She pries the long nails from the bedframe legs and hides them up her sleeves, down her socks, in her braids. 

Onya speaks _gonasleng_ well enough, but she fumbles with this jargon, legal nonsense, complicated requests for asylum, papers on papers. How this country has any trees left, Onya doesn’t understand. Leksa reads them aloud and after, she sleeps, her face pinched and creased, Tris held protected against her side, Kostia pressed against her neck, Onya squints at the files and files and forms they’re given in the faint light, sounding their syllables on her tongue. She crumples them in her fists and wished she’d worked harder in her classes.

 _Skaikru_ Tris mumbles one day, after another meeting with men in suits. Too concerned with things in the air to notice the ground at their feet.

//

There is a note under their door. It’s a printout, for some kind of fancy tool, a pricetag from a website. Onya frowns. She thumps a fist against the closed garage door. “Explain yourself.”

“You threw my shit. It’s expensive, and I’m broke.” Reivon doesn’t even look up.

“You nearly set your own face afire.” Onya paces, fuming. “What--repons--” She loses the edge of _gonasleng_ and makes a noise, inarticulate. Reivon slams something on the workbench. It’s the tool, from the night before, and Onya can clearly see it is warped. She frowns. 

“I’m not trying to fleece you, okay? I just need a replacement.” Reivon is wearing some kind of goggles, protective. She pushes them up to look at Onya in the face and they leave sootmarks in her eye sockets. 

Onya snarls. She slams the door behind her.

 

“I need,” she repeats, slow through her gritted teeth. “A specific tool. Can you help me with that, or can’t you?”

The employee in the blue polo shirt sweats, noticeably. Onya curls her lip at him, disgusted.

 

“I went to three stores.” She lays the case down on Reivon’s table. 

Reivon blinks. “You’ve been out shopping all day? It’s almost midnight.”

Onya, in fact, had run several other errands and arranged another meeting for the next day, but she sees no need to disclose any of that. “It seemed very important, for you to pass notes in the hall like a child.”

Reivon casts her a look, cutting, but her fingers are deft and careful when she opens the case. She touches the tools inside and clicks it shut, sliding it across the table. “I can’t accept this.”

Onya gapes. “ _What?_ ”

“This is too expensive. Just return it, give me the cash I priced you, and I’ll pick something out. Or give me the receipt and I’ll do it myself.”

“ _You refuse_ \--” Onya sputters, “ _You_ \--” Reivon peers at her.

“Are you having a stroke?”

“Keep it,” Onya snarls. “I do not have a receipt.” She spins on her heel, flushed and still furious.

“Wait!”

Onya wrenches the door open before pausing, although she refuses to turn. “We have nothing more to say to each other.” 

 

Reivon catches up to her halfway across the yard. “Wait, Jesus Christ. You know I’ve got a bum leg.” Onya’s jaw works. She considers throwing off Reivon’s hand. “Did I seriously offend you?”

“I--” Onya huffs. “These tools are not familiar to me. I spent a great deal of time…” She makes a frustrated noise. “It is no matter. Do what you want.”

“Okay, fine. I owe you one, then. Something in the future.” Reivon tries a smile at her. Onya frowns. 

“That isn’t wise,” she tells Reivon. “You shouldn’t offer such blank promises.”

“Yeah, well. I already did. We’re good?”

“As good as we will ever be,” Onya says. She watches Reivon go back to the garage.

 

Onya lies in the top bunk on her belly, looking out the window. She can see the light in the garage burning, late into the night and into the early morning. Reivon, she thinks, must not be _skaikru_. She is _trikru_ in her spirit, to understand the earth the way she does, to make its laws and its minerals bend to her will.

//

Tris is _fou_ and Onya has come to visit, Leksa with little wooden carvings for Tris and her _tu bro_. Tris runs to them, and Onya swings her into the air, pleased to see how well Tris has grown, how strong. They visit Onya’s parents, and her _nomon_ is spinning sugar into layered braids, hanging them from clips to form crystallized sweets. It is summer, and the humidity is stifling. They have to wet Leksa’s hair in the river every day before it’s able to be braided, and Onya’s hangs, limp and sweaty. They climb the nearest mountain, Tris on Onya’s shoulders, and sit in a _tri_ , the air ruffling past, refreshing, and Onya eats candy with her fingertips and listens to Tris and Leksa bicker like _sis_.

//

Thanksgiving, Onya learns, is a fool’s holiday. It means more people in the house, more talking, more shouting. She plans to stay out of it. 

“ _Beja_ ,” is all Leksa says, faintly pleading. It has been so long since Leksa has asked for anything that Onya hesitates. “ _Sweets_ ,” Leksa tempts, and Onya sighs. 

 

“ _A curse on your clan_ ,” Onya hisses, furious. She narrows her eyes, the slitted eye glare that’s made men twice her age and three times her size shake in place and retreat before her rage. “ _May your bloodline dry in the fires of war._ ”

“Trouble?” Onya spins. Reivon has snuck up on her, which only serves to sharpen her fury. She can’t find her _gonasleng_ fast enough, and Reivon comes further into the kitchen, curious. “What are you making?”

Onya sighs. She slides the printout across the counter. “Pie,” she says, short. 

Reivon picks up the paper and scans, reading. “Ambitious. Any particular reason?”

Their first year in this country, they’d gone to a shelter for Thanksgiving, Leksa explaining the origins of the holiday while they stood in line. Tris had hated the yams, made too sweet and so unlike the food of their homeland, but she’d loved pumpkin pie, stealing bites from their plates while they weren't looking. Her mischievousness had been the first thing to make any of them smile, wan and pinched, Onya still walking with a limp and Leksa staring at her hands when she thinks no one is watching, her gaze drawn and haunted. “No,” Onya says, flat. She snatches the paper from Reivon’s hands and throws it into the trashcan, angry again. “I will buy something.”

“Hey now.” Reivon fishes it out. “You gonna let something like canned filling and a premade crust defeat you like that? I thought you lot were warriors.”

“If I could beat this into submission I would have,” Onya mutters, turning to her failed creation. She glowers. 

Reivon rolls up her sleeves. “Yeah. Let’s do this.”

Onya blinks at her. “What?”

“Cooking.” Reivon takes the paper from Onya’s surprised fingers. “It’s basically chemistry, right? Hand me that bowl.”

 

“How good,” Onya asks, half an hour later, “at chemistry are you?”

Reivon glowers at the blender before her, the lid blown off. There’s orange muck on her face, dripping, and droplets on the ceiling. “You were right, fuck this thing. What’s that thing, you said when I came in?” She says something, garbled, nothing like what Onya had threatened, and it should make Onya just as angry as whenever she hears some _skaikru goufa_ butcher her language, but she finds she has to reach for her frown. 

“ _Fuck this thing_ ,” Onya says, and says it three more times before Reivon can pronounce it well enough to be understood.

“ _Fuck thing_ ,” Reivon manages, triumphant. She tips everything into the trash and sets the dishes soaking. “You have a car, right?” She sticks her wallet in her pocket, yanking a jacket around her shoulders. Onya watches her, motionless, and Reivon rolls her eyes. “We’ll get a storebought one, but like, a shitty one, and say we made it. We just have to dispose of the packaging somewhere discreet.”

“Why would I require your assistance in this matter?” Onya lets her gaze fall deliberately to the mess of the kitchen. “So far you have been more hindrance than aid.”

Reivon rolls her eyes. “Because I’m offering and because you need me to keep my mouth shut anyway. And it was my idea.” Onya stares at her without blinking. “And because I want a ride to the grocery store, Jesus, stop looking at me like that.”

 

Reivon reaches for the radio dial in her car and Onya growls. It’s preset to a classical music station, and Reivon fidgets, her hands in her lap, for almost five minutes before she has to ask: “So this what you like? Musically?”

Onya’s so impressed by Reivon’s restraint, five whole minutes, that she responds. “Yes.”

Reivon lets the silence drag. “Because…?”

Onya makes a turn, feels the wheel slide against her sword calluses. “I like it.”

“You’re real difficult to get to know, you know that?” But Reivon is smiling a little, almost fond, and Onya lets the corner of her mouth tug up, on the side Reivon can’t see.

 

They find what they need in the store quickly, and Onya refuses to hold the basket so she trails after Reivon while Reivon picks through packaged noodles and discount meats, muttering to herself. “Okay,” Reivon says finally, “I’m ready.”

She leads Onya towards the front registers, going down the candy aisle, and Onya separates from her, drawn to a little display of sweets in cardboard boxes, the size of her palm. The picture is familiar, little rocks of spun sugar, translucent. “You want?” Reivon asks, coming up beside her. “My treat.”

Onya thinks of Tris, giggling in the garden with Onya’s _nontu_. “No,” she says, and turns away.

//

Leksa is _ten-fou_ and has met a girl. She comes back from the _fisa_ with a bandage and a smile, her cheeks pink. Onya thinks, for a few days, that it’s the _fisa_ himself, who is tall and dark and muscled, until she sees the _gada_ trainee in the halls and Leksa trips over her own heel, knocking hard into Onya’s side. She rights herself and glares.

“Very smooth,” Onya notes. “So it’s her you’ve been lovestruck for.”

“You are wrong,” Leksa says, “as you so often are.”

 

Onya waits for Leksa outside the room where she learns things Onya can’t teach her, languages and history and how to rule a nation and command an army. When Leksa emerges Onya tosses the slim book at her face. Leksa turns it over and flushes. “You can’t even read this,” she mutters, and Onya lets the grin play over her face, pleased at her own joke.

“I have heard _gadas_ like _gonasleng_ ,” she says. “Very romantic. And everyone enjoys poetry.”

“I plan to write my own,” Leksa says. 

 

Later, Onya will think this the last time she laughed, the sun streaming down on her through the open window, the breeze in her hair; Leksa’s face scowled only in adolescent frustration, warm at her side.

//

The meal itself is just as annoying as Onya thought it would be. She tries a smile when Leksa shoots her a look across the table and Klark drops her plate into her own lap. It’s almost worth the annoyance, just for that. When the pie is served Reivon grins at her, conspiratorially, and Onya--she doesn’t smile, exactly, although she thinks she almost wants to. But she quirks her eyebrow and Reivon winks, exaggerated, and Onya eats her pie and thinks of Tris for the first time without feeling the yawning hollowness in her chest, devouring her organs. Even so, Onya leaves as soon as she is able, and she takes the pumpkin pie with her into the yard. She climbs the tree and shares the crust crumbs with the squirrels.

Reivon’s face peeks up from the lowest branch. “So this is where you hide.”

“I hide from nothing and from no one.”.

“Yeah, you’re the baddest ass around. But we need that plate. To wash.”

Onya hands her the plate. Raven hesitates, her arm still reached up. “Happy Thanksgiving, Anya.”

Onya watches her disappear back into the leaves, then leans over, a controlled fall to the next branch, so she can watch Reivon walk back into the house, shouting something bright and mirthful to her friends. She makes her tongue twist into the unfamiliar syllables. “Happy Thanksgiving, Raven.”

//

Onya remembers running through the _tri_ , the wind in her hair. She remembers how she knew the _graun_ , really knew it, so her feet fell between the roots silent and strong and the wind was always at her back when she needed it. The bark of the _tri_ clung to her palms when she scrambled up their trunks, and she smiled when she threw fruit down to Leksa, eating on the banks of the rivers with fresh tart juices dripping down their chins and across their fingers, walking back with her arm slung over Leksa’s shoulders.

//

Linkon is Onya’s contact. He picks her up in his car and they drive in circles while they watch the mirrors in stony silence, until they’re satisfied they’re not being followed, and he takes her to the meetings. They’re in different places, each time, warehouses and basements and empty lots, and they speak in soft hushed whispers. 

“ _I am most worried about the timeline_ ,” Onya says. “ _Our people have waited too long already_.”

Linkon only shrugs. “ _And if we rush and fail, and Heda is captured, it is all over_.”

Onya grumbles, but she agrees. She checks her phone and finds a text, from Leksa: _At an art show with Clarke_. There’s an address attached, and Onya frowns. Leksa had promised not to go out, and she knows that neighborhood makes Onya antsy and anxious. “ _Fine_ ,” she snaps to the group at large. “ _We meet again in four days_.”

She is leaning against the wall, waiting for Linkon, when she hears Quinn rumbling to the others in _gonasleng_. “How do we know she’s even _Heda_? I’m not saying we don’t go in, but she never had the flame--” Onya steps around the corner and they fall silent. Quinn draws up, his jaw set, but his hands shake at his side. He and Onya had fought together, when they’d made their way to the airstrip. 

“ _Speak true_ ,” she says, mocking. “ _Jomp Heda op en yu jomp ai op_.”

“ _You know I respect you. And I will follow Heda. If she is Heda_.” Quinn casts his gaze to the sides, where his friends shift, unwilling to back him up in the face of the knife slipping from Onya’s sleeve to her hand, the grip familiar and steadying. 

“ _Leksa burns for the Trikru_ ,” Onya snarls. “ _If you have doubt, come and meet my edge. Your spirit will confirm it on your way to your next life_.”

“Anya,” Linkon says, from beneath a streetlight. “They’re tired, it’s late. We will address it at the next meeting. “ _Kom, sis. Leksa waits for you_.”

//

Onya was waiting in Leksa’s quarters when she returned, late with mussed hair and a soft clinging smile, and Onya hates to have to be the one to take it away. “You and Kostia,” she’d said, exhaling. 

Leska edged into the room, her shirt untucked and loose. “Yes,” she’d said, lifting her chin. “Me and Kostia.” She goes a little dreamy. “Onya,” she said, hesitant, “does it always--feel like that? Like this?” She sat on the bed. 

“You will be _Heda_ ,” Onya reminded her. “You will have only one priority. It is a disservice to Kostia, once you ascend.”

Leksa lifted her chin, teenage defiance. “I am not _Heda_ yet.”

Onya growled at her willful misunderstanding, and had moved to leave before stopping. She sat beside her _seken_ and rested a hesitant hand on the back of Leksa’s neck. A soft bruise is blooming on her throat, and Onya watched it while she told Leksa, “It feels that way because it is special. Because _em ste hod_.”

“ _Hodnes_ ,” Leksa murmured, wondrous, her eyes shining like sunbeams. Onya stayed in her room, crouched at her bedside and then leaned against the wall, watching Leksa smile in her sleep and feeling it hurt, in her heart, to know it is only temporary. 

//

Reivon is watching television when Onya comes in, still breathing through her nose, her wrist pressed against her leg to feel the comforting press of her knife. “Yikes,” Reivon says, craning around to watch her stalk through to the kitchen. “Bad day at the farm?”

Onya snarls at her, stomping wordless into the kitchen. She tries to pour a glass of water from the pitcher in the fridge and her left hand gives out, abrupt. She shouts, furious, and the glass shatters, shards falling onto her foot, water splashing harshly against the tile. She leans her palms on the counter and bows her back, breathing even and willing her heartbeat under control. Violence crackles in her, demanding release, and she’s so busy forcibly calming herself she doesn’t notice Reivon coming in behind her. 

“Hey,” Reivon says, cautious. “You uh, doing okay?”

“ _Nou_ ,” Onya growls. She hisses something low and snarly, in her village dialogue, so thick even Leksa would need a second to understand it, and when she whirls around--Reivon doesn’t flinch, she _braces_. Feet dug in and chin lifted, jaw set and eyes flashing, and it draws Onya up short. Onya doesn’t apologize, but she does recognize the pang of regret in her chest. It takes her five beats of her racing heart to find _gonasleng_ , and it comes out more heavily accented than she’d like. “You should not be in here,” she says, as even as she can, “there is glass on the floor.”

Reivon looks at her, and she looks back, and there’s nothing except the hard glint of her brown eyes and the tick of the clock on the wall, but when Reivon says, “I’ll get the broom,” Onya’s breath wooshes out in a long exhale and she is--she is settled, somehow. She breathes soft and easy, and when Reivon comes back with shoes on so she can walk across the floor she hands Onya the broom and takes a roll of paper towels off the fridge, bending to start to mop up the water. Onya watches Reivon, knelt careful, and her knuckles creak from how tight they are around the broom handle. 

“ _Beja_ ,” she says, bending her legs to crouch. “Let me.”

Reivon passes her the roll of paper towels and stands, leaning a hip against the counter. “So. Someone forget to kiss your ring?”

Onya throws the sodden wad in her hand without looking, hears it plop satisfyingly into the trash can. “I am not in the mafia,” she says, standing. “Nor is Leksa.” She takes the broom back and starts to nudge the glass into a pile on the floor, the bristles leaving damp streaks. 

“Why do you say it like that?” Onya arches an eyebrow. “ _Lexska_ ,” Reivon tries. Onya snorts. 

“ _Leksa_ ,” she says, slow to let Reivon hear it right. “It is the right way to say her name, in our language.”

“ _Lex--Leksah_ ,” Reivon says, slow and careful, her brow furrowed. “Not an Alexandria after all. Octavia owes me a dollar. How do you say your name?”

“ _Onya_.” Onya reaches under the sink for the dustbin, and cleans the glass with quiet tinkles. She says it four more times, “ _Onya, Onya, O-n-y-a, On-ya_ ,” before Reivon manages it, grinning. 

“You must hate it when people call you Anya,” Reivon muses, and Onya’s eyes jump to hers as she puts the cleaning materials away, surprised. She says nothing, and Reivon is watching her face, intent, but she lets the matter drop, switching topics neatly. “What happened?”

Onya stares at her. “I dropped a glass,” she says, disdainful. It’s quite obvious what’s happened.

“You with the ninja cat reflexes?” Onya is ready to snarl again, drive Reivon away with the force of her ill nature, but when she turns Reivon’s hand is outstretched, a crystal candy on her palm. “I bought these the other day, seems like you could use one.”

Onya takes the sweet from her, her fingers brushing Reivon’s palm. It may be the first time they’ve ever touched. It melts on Onya’s tongue like summer, and for a second she can smell Trigeda again, feel its sticky heat and its cooling breeze; she hears her _nomon_ ’s voice. “I have--” she stumbles over the words, unfamiliar to her in both languages, “--damage. In the nerves.” She holds her left hand up and flexes it, watching the muscles and bones play and flex under her skin. “It impacts mobility.”

She waits for Reivon’s next question, but Reivon just offers her another piece of candy. “How do you say my name?” she asks, like Onya hasn’t just talked about her injuries for the first time; not even when Leksa’s asked has she admitted her hand isn’t what it used to be, what is should be; she is broken in this way.

The door bangs open and Okteivia spills through, shouting about something Onya couldn’t care about if you held a knife to her throat, and Reivon tips the candy into Onya’s hand, smiling half apologetic as she moves away.

 

This is two things she owes to Reivon now, at least, and Onya is hardly the right person to figure out how to balance favors that don’t involve violence or planned revolution. It doesn’t make them close to even, Onya knows, but she writes Reivon’s name in her language on an index card, looping and in the dark ink pen Leksa keeps in her desk for official signatures, and she slides it into an envelope with ‘Raven’ printed in Onya’s small blocky handwriting. She slips it under the garage door in the early morning, and leaves a corner peeking out. When she gets back she checks; it’s gone.

//

Tris’s _nontu_ was from Onya’s village. It makes Tris her _sis-youngon_ , or close enough to. Enough that Onya had attended her birth, Leksa trailing after her in the early days of their partnering. 

Leksa cradled Tris close, peering at her, marveling at her tiny fingers, her toes, the tuft of her dark hair.

“She will be _gona_ one day,” her mother had said, proud. “Will you take her, Onya?”

“I will be _Heda_ by then,” Lexa’d said, her tone factual rather than braggart. “She will be treated well.”

Onya reached out. Tris caught one finger, her grip tight and strong. “I will look after her,” Onya had promised. 

//

Klark delivers pizza to their door, flushing. Leksa frowns after her retreating back, puzzled. Then she half-smiles. “ _Kefa_ ,” Onya warns. She has seen that smile before, and it’s bittersweet. How long has she wished to see happiness across Leksa’s face? “ _This can only end one way_ ,” she says, as gentle as she’s capable of being. Leksa’s smile disappears.

“ _I am_ ,” she says, cold and flat and pure _Heda_ , “ _more than capable of separating my feelings from my duty_.” She is, Onya thinks, speaking more to herself than to Onya. 

“ _I have never doubted you_ ,” Onya says, simply. 

Leksa takes a deep breath. Her fists clench, her spine is iron. “ _Ai get em in_.”

Leksa sleeps below her, fitful, and Onya lies awake, staring at the ceiling. When Leksa’s breathing has gone deep and even, interrupted by little mutters, Onya slides a hand under her pillow. There’s a creased picture there, folded over and worn, faded. It’s Leksa, very young, cradling an infant Tris against her chest. She is smiling, soft, and Tris’ tiny face is scrunched up, mid-scream. It is the only photograph Onya has. She wishes, fierce even while it irks her to dwell on things that can’t be changed, that Leksa had one of Kostia, to bring her comfort in the cold dark hours of the night when every person is most alone. 

Onya sleeps with the picture pressed against her chest. She dreams of _hou_.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Winter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> kudos for my smurf who betas all the things *_*

Onya had given Leksa her first drink.

It is Leksa’s birthday, or close enough to. In just one year, Onya knows she’ll be ready for her trials. “It has been,” she says, fumbling for the place in herself where she keeps her emotions, “a great _koma_ to be your _fos_.”

“The _koma_ ,” Leksa says, so young and already the wisest person Onya will ever know, “has always been mine.” They shake the Trikru way, forearms clasped, their free hands braced on each other’s shoulders, and Onya pours her a drink.

The first sip makes Leksa cough, and by the low garden wall, Onya can see Kostia’s curls glinting under the moonlight. “Be free tonight,” Onya says, releasing her, “you are not _Heda_ yet.”

//

The carnival is full of people, Onya’s least favorite. Leksa is all soft breaths and gentle eyes, trailing after Klark and holding her hand and bending to almost kiss her in the parking lot, and Onya stomps about on bits of straw and candy wrappers, fuming. 

“ _You pulled me out of a meeting for this_ ,” she hisses in passing. Leksa’s eyes flash.

“ _I told you to use your discretion. What here could you be guarding me from?_ ”

Ahead of them, Klark laughs at something, her hair bright under the streetlamps. Leksa sways towards the sound. “ _From yourself_ ,” Onya hisses.

 

“They are pretty gross, huh?” Reivon is leaning against a fence, eating the churro Onya had shoved into her hands. “But it’s not so bad, right? What’s a little happiness, in the long run?”

“There are more important things.”

“More important than being happy?” Reivon’s hands drop to rub at her leg. 

Onya looks to where Leksa is handing Klark a stuffed animal. She looks like a college student on a first date, blushing and almost awkward, even as she handled a gun with a liquid grace no average student would have. “ _Sha_ , even more than that.” 

“That’s sad,” Reivon says, quiet.

“That’s life,” Onya says.

 

In the parking lot Reivon stumbles and Onya picks her up. Reivon is shouting something ridiculous, and when her friends poke fun at her Leksa laughs, bright and silvery. Onya stumbles to hear it, her chest too tight. “Just one night,” Reivon says softly in her ear, her weight slight for the force of her personality, “is it so bad?”

 

Onya drives them to a pizza parlour. She orders at the counter, ignoring Okteivia’s request for pineapple at her shoulder, and goes to the bathroom to splash water on her face. Reivon enters, too close on her heels, and it’s been hours now, surrounded by these people. It makes Onya’s skin itch. “ _Can’t I have a moment’s peace_ ,” she snaps, and only realizes it wasn’t _gonasleng_ when Reivon’s brow furrows, confused. She slaps a hand against the facet, frustrated, then runs it down her face. “ _I hate it here_ ,” she mutters, tired. “ _I hate this country_.” She feels, suddenly, although she understands what ‘homesickness’ really means. 

Reivon runs her hand under the paper towel dispenser sensor, wets the cheap brown napkin and hands it over. Onya takes it, their fingers brushing, and wipes it across the back of her neck. “Do you want to know what happened to my leg?” Reivon asks.

“No.”

“I know.” Onya looks up, surprised. “You just don’t care. Isn’t that weird?” Reivon looks down. “I think you’re the only person who’s never looked twice at my brace.” Onya doesn’t know what to say to that. She’s never been particularly articulate, especially with the way _gonasleng_ stutters between her brain and her tongue.

“Sorry,” she tries.

Reivon looks mildly curious. “Are you?”

Onya shrugs. “Not really.” She flicks her eyes to the door. “The piz--” she fumbles-- _trigedasleng_ doesn’t use such buzzing noises-- “pizza will be ready soon.”

Reivon nods, agreeing. “I actually came in here to hear you pee.”

Onya blinks. She translates that twice in her head, frontwards and backwards, to be sure. “Robots don’t have to pee,” she says, finally, carefully flat. Reivon’s eyes widen, and Onya half-smiles, on her way out the door.

//

Onya was walking along the roof’s edge, atop the barracks, when the first explosion rocked the main building, big and loud enough it shook the stone under her feet. She scrambles down the side pipes, running for her emergency posting, and Leksa falls into a sprint beside her, buckling a sword over one shoulder. “What’s happening?”

“Don’t know.”

Onya remembers how pale Indra was, when she told Onya to take Leksa and run, and how the ash choked them as they scrambled to obey, their home burning down around them. She remembers killing someone for the first time, and how easy it was. She remembers being chased down, and pushing Leksa into the dark trees. 

“I’ll hold them off.” She grasps Leksa by the shoulders, wishing she had something significant to say, something wise. “ _Yu laik Heda nau_.” 

Onya watches Leksa run, and feels the blood on her hands. It’s thicker than she thought it would be. She hears them closing in on her and she raises her sword. 

//

“ _Onya. Take Okteivia’s phone_.” Leksa disconnects the connection without explanation.

Onya snatches the mobile out of Okteivia’s fingers. “Hey!” she yelps. 

“You talk too much.” She hangs it up and tucks it into her pocket. “Eat.”

Reivon hums, frowning at the television. “Indiana Jones is on, but it’s the new one. Boo.”

“I like it--” Okteivia starts, and Reivon holds up a hand.

“Please. I can’t, tonight. I don’t have the mental capacity, the emotional strength, to explain to you all the ways you are _so wrong_.” She turns to Onya. “Back me up, superdroid.”

Onya has no idea what either of them are talking about. Their cadence is loving, familiar, teasing. It sounds like Tris and Leksa, poking fun at each other in the yard, Leksa’s blush when Onya talked about Kostia. She stands and leaves without a word.

 

Reivon pokes her head into her room without knocking and Onya growls from her bunk. “Did we make you uncomfortable?”

Onya can’t remember the last time she felt comfortable. “No.”

“Do you want to watch a movie with us?”

“No.” Onya rolls over and faces the wall. She hears the door shut. 

 

Fifteen minutes later and she hears Klark grumbling in the other room, stomping down the hall. Leksa storms in and curses. Then she yelps.

“ _You left pizza on the floor_?” Onya rolls over. Lexa has half-fallen against the wall, her foot planted in pepperoni on a paper plate. She’s gaping up at Onya. 

“ _Of course not_.” Onya sits up. Reivon must have left it there. Onya feels a sharp pang, in her chest. She pushes it down, hard. “ _Didn’t have a good date with the prisa_?”

“ _Fuck off_ ,” Leksa snaps. She slams the bathroom door behind her. 

Onya slides off her bed, landing cat quiet on the carpet. She doesn’t like looking at the pizza, a peace offering on a plate with Lexa’s bootprint dark and crushing. She throws it away and presses an ear to the door. She can hear the television, and sometimes the rise fall of their voices, Okteivia and Reivon laughing and teasing each other. Onya flicks the light off and goes to bed.

//

Onya’s first interaction with Leksa was doing her tattoo. “It will hurt,” she tells her, and Leksa lifts her chin. 

“ _Ai nou fir raun_.”

Onya isn’t good with people. She never has been. Indra is the closest relationship she’s ever had, and it was hardly hugs and feelings. So she shrugs, and goes to work, the needle and the ink. Leksa lasts forty minutes before the first tear, twenty minutes longer than Onya had herself, and her chest is shaking ten minutes after that, her fist clenched too tight.

“Pain,” Onya tells her, “is good. It’s your body telling you _hod up_.’ It shouldn’t be feared or ignored, just acknowledged.”

“I understand,” Leksa says. She takes a deep breath.

“No you don’t.” Onya wipes a soft cloth over Leksa’s trembling skin, smearing black ink and blood. “Not yet. You will.”

//

Leksa makes Onya dinner. Stew, heavy on the meat and light on the onions, big chunks of carrot, soft potatoes, spicy. It’s Onya’s favorite, and she shuffles into the kitchen suspiciously. “ _You are softening me up_ ,” she accuses. 

“ _Sha_ ,” Leksa agrees. She sits and gestures across from her. “ _Please_.”

They eat in silence for almost ten minutes before Onya puts her spoon down and sighs. “ _Tell me_.”

Leksa frowns into her water glass, sipping to buy herself time. She fidgets in her chair and bites her lip. It is oddly reminiscent of the time she was responsible for a small fire in the stables. Onya narrows her eyes, and then has a sudden, apocalyptic vision. “ _You mean to wed Klark_ ,” she blurts, horrified.

Leksa chokes, eyes widening as she coughs, hand pressed to her chest. “ _Nou_ ,” she manages, finally, “ _why--no. Nou_.”

Onya breathes, relieved. “ _Good. What is it, then_?”

“ _It is winter_ ,” Leksa says, visibly bracing herself. “ _I… believe you should perform the lupa this year_.” Onya exhales, her palms flat on the table. “ _Gon Tris_ ,” Leksa finishes. They sit in frozen, suspended silence. Then Onya slams a fist down, rattling their dishes. 

“ _We will not speak of this again_.” She stands, and Leksa darts around the table, blocking her in, too close. “ _Why are you doing this_?”

“ _It has been many years_ ,” Leksa says, refusing to drop her gaze. “ _Ai wich_ \--”

Onya snarls. “ _Get away from me_.”

“-- _it will help you. Onya, beja_ \--”

Onya slashes her hand through the air and Leksa falls quiet. “ _I am your Fos_ \--”

“No,” Leksa says, “you are not. You are not my _fos_. I am not your _seken_.” Onya feels her eyes get very wide, but everything else stills. She is suddenly aware of the sound of the clock, ticking against the wall, and the rumbling of a passing truck. Onya was seven when she left her village, ten when she began training. She was seventeen when she swore her heartbeat to Leksa, twenty when she killed for her, twenty-two when she became her legal guardian. She is nearing thirty now, and nearly half her life she has lived to be Leksa’s _fos_. It feels like betrayal, cutting neatly through her ribs to spear her heart, but what hurts most, ridiculously, is that it was performed in _gonasleng_.

Onya takes a shuddery breath, fighting for her control. “ _Get_ ,” she says, her voice oscillating strangely, even to her own ears, “ _away from me. Kom nau._ ”

Leksa shakes her head. “No.”

Onya shoves her, both hands on Leksa’s shoulders, and Leksa rocks back, sliding on the tile. “ _I will not ask you again._ ”

“ _Yu don had raun em. I have kept quiet a long time, Onya._ ” Leksa’s eyes are wet, and her hands are trembling, but she refuses to be moved. “ _I hurt to see you pained_ \--”

Onya grabs Leksa by the shoulder and the waist and throws her across the kitchen, into the living room. Leksa twists midair, lithe, and lands on the table in a crouch, even as it gives way under her weight and momentum, cracking and collapsing. Onya is startled by her own violence, and moves to retreat down the hall. Leksa launches, grabbing her wrist in an armbar and slamming her against the wall. “ _Onya_ ,” she says into her ear, very gentle. “ _If it is not performed within ten years of her passing_ \--”

Onya thinks she might have howled, wrenching her head back until it slams into Leksa’s cheek, spinning. She loses herself.

//

Onya is surprised to wake up in the holding cells. She is surprised to wake up at all. They drag her before Nia, past the bodies of the people she’s known and respected, and demand to know where Leksa is. The _natblida_ are lined up next to the throne Nia stole, _youngon_ corpses all in a row, and Onya looks at their blank faces, the stench of death cloying in her nose, and spits in the _natrona_ ’sface.

They take her to another room, and try to make her talk. They do many things. Onya puts them away under a wall in her mind, and never thinks about them again.

//

Onya comes back to herself. She’s on the floor, facedown, her cheek pressed hard against the carpet, rubbing her skin raw. Her arms are twisted behind her back, and Leksa’s weight is pinning her down. “ _Onya_ ,” Leksa is whispering gently in her ear. “ _Onya_.”

Onya coughs. Her throat feels dry, shredded, like she’s been shouting. Her face feels oddly wet. “ _I’m here_.” She looks around the room, the destruction a blank hole in her mind, and shudders. “ _Heda_.” It is the highest form of treason, what she has done, to her nation, to raise a hand against Heda. To Onya, it is even worse to raise a hand to Leksa.

Leksa stands and offers Onya her arm. Onya sits up, hesitates, and then turns away, ashamed, and swallows at the floor. “ _I need to be alone_.” Her hands tremble and she hates her weakness, her loss of control. Leksa frowns. “ _I will be fine_.” Leksa shifts, clearly unwilling, and Onya takes a deep breath. “ _Leksa, please_.”

Leksa goes to the kitchen table, her shoes crunching on pieces of ceramic, glass, splinters. She kneels for a few seconds, then returns, offering Onya her motorcycle keys. “ _Text me_?”

“ _Sha_ ,” Onya agrees. 

//

Onya has seen the ocean once. She woke at five, kneeling to greet the sun’s first rays on her face, the candles lit around her, dancing and flickering in the strong wind. She walked with Indra down to the beach, stifling her awe at the sound of the waves, the calls of the birds, the new smells. It was different than the forest. It felt lonely.

Onya lay on the dry sand, stomach first, and Indra laid a hand on the small of her back, her hand drawing a stick from the fire. Onya watched it smolder, until Indra murmured ‘it’s time’. Onya closed her eyes and shivered as the hot ash settled on her skin in dark sharp lines, geometric patterns, swooping curves. Her calves itched after Indra finished, and she lay for another ten minutes to let the patterns set before standing again. The _kakau_ let her to the water and she knelt again, careful to keep her weight off her calves, and they dipped the fine bone needles into the water, murmuring. Onya licked the row, once, pricking on her tongue as she whets the tool with her blood, the salt stinging. 

They tattooed her on the beach, Onya on her stomach with her head pillowed on her hands and Indra kneeling beside her, bracing the skin. Onya closed her eyes, listened to the roar of the water and the rhythmic tapping, in tune with the sharp jarring pokes that lance through her legs, first one then the other. She smelled the ink, and her blood, and the rich earth of the forest, lingered on her palms as she breathed through the pain.

//

Onya rides to the beach. She had grumbled, a little, when Leksa bought it, a protest that she let die after her first ride, the wind in her hair and rushing in her ears, freedom in the roar between her legs. She’s made Leksa swear to always wear a helmet, but almost never does herself. 

She stops on the side of a highway, walking into long grass to hide her blanket and the bike. She falls asleep with the dirt hard below her, the grass itchy, and the sky spread out dark, although not as deeply expansive as it would be farther away from city lights. She wakes with the sun and stretches, the traffic roaring nearby, before walking the motorcycle back to the shoulder. 

She stops at a fruit stand, trades a few crumpled dollar bills at the bottom of her pocket for two peaches and an orange, warm and dripping on her chin. She tucks the orange into her jacket and guns the engine before rumbling away. She feels good, in an odd way. Her muscles ache comfortably, enough she groans, faint, when she stretches, and the peaches are strong on her tongue, pleasantly tart. The air turns salty, as she nears the ocean, and she exits in a small town, no more than a few roadside motels and diners. The tiny beach has gravelly sand, pokey and rocky against her feet as she strips away her socks and sinks her toes into it, damp and cold and sharp. Everything is grey. She leaves her shirt on the sand, next to her boots and her pants, and wades into the water. It’s frigid, and the wind is strong and she shivers, her skin rippling in goosebumps. 

She makes it waist deep before a hand lands on her elbow. “Jesus!” Reivon yanks her around, her hair whipping around her face. She’s saying something, fast and animated, and Onya can’t quite follow it. Her voice sounds too big, echoing. It rushes in her ears and she feels too small, overwhelmed. “ _Onya_ ,” Reivon says, and the world explodes back into her senses, sharp and clear. She blinks, rapid. “Are you okay? Didn’t you hear me calling you?”

Onya blinks at her. She has heard nothing but the ocean, singing in her blood. She sharpens her eyes. “Have you been following me?”

Reivon snorts. “Please.” She drags Onya out of the surf, flinching at the spray and the wind. “I’m staying up at the motel--” she points “--and I saw a crazy person taking their clothes off, so I come down here and look, it’s an idiot _I know_ walking into the ocean.”

Onya shakes her off. “It is no concern of yours.”

Reivon scoffs. “Sure. Fine. You’re a super badass special snowflake following her baby sister to college, and you’re far too good for the rest of us, and your muscles are very distracting and you hate my best friend and you're still, I don’t know, still cool despite all of that, which may actually be the thing I hate most about you. It doesn’t mean I’m about to let you Virginia Woolf yourself at a trucker instagram hotspot called _Dogshead Walk_ , of all places. Lexa would kill me, for one, and that means Clarke might help, the besotted idiot.” Reivon cuts off abruptly, chest heaving, and Onya stares at her. It’s the most words Reivon has ever spoken to her in one sitting. It may be the most words anyone has ever spoken to Onya in one sitting. 

Onya gropes for words and fails. “Who is Virginia Woolf?” she asks. Reivon throws her hands up into the air and stomps a short distance away, glaring. She holds up her smartphone like a threat. 

“Lexa,” she says, ominous. “You go past your waist and your sister gets a call.”

“She is not my sister,” Onya tells her, focusing on the words she understands. She turns and only goes far enough for the water to lap at her calves. Her skin is numbed, past the point of pain to a sort of tingly numbness. She kneels, ignoring Reivon’s shouted _Hey!_ , and lets the water flood over her face. She opens her eyes, ignoring the sting of the salt, and watches the sand slosh against her skin. She stands before her lungs are tired and drags her fingers through her wet tangled hair, breathing deep and long. She feels--. She feels better.

“Christ,” Reivon says as Onya draws near. “I thought I was going to have to go in and get you. We’d both die.”

“I have not come all this way,” Onya says, “to drown in a _skaikru_ river.” The word is not quite right and she frowns.

“Ocean,” Reivon says, helpfully neutral.

“Ocean,” Onya agrees. They walk back to her pile of clothes together.

//

Indra comes in the dead of night, limping, one arm dangling, and carries Onya out of her prison. Onya doesn’t remember much, until Indra props her against a tree and slaps her across the face. “Onya. You must be strong. _Heda_ needs you.”

Onya claws her way back to herself. “Leksa,” she breathes. “For Leksa.”

“For Leksa,” Indra agrees. Onya walks the last mile, stumbling, one eye swollen shut. Leksa melts out of a shadow and runs to her. 

“Onya!” Leksa’s hands trail her face, then her torso, checking for injuries. Onya winces at pressure on her tender ribs. “Kostia,” Leksa snaps, and the _fisa gada_ hurries to her side. “Clean her wounds,” Leksa orders, “help her change.” She already sounds different; older, more tired.

“Tris _kamp raun hir_ ,” Kostia tells her while she wraps Onya’s ribs and helps her into fresh clothes. “Indra hasn’t found any other _natblida_.”

“There are no others,” Onya says. Kostia cradles Onya’s left hand, as carefully as she can.

“I don’t know how to fix this,” she admits, and Onya remembers she is just a child, even if Leksa isn’t quite, not anymore.

Onya grits her teeth when Kostia starts to straighten her fingers. “It doesn’t matter. I can carry my sword in my right hand.”

//

Onya dresses, and her clothes cling to her wet skin. The sand itches. “And I am to believe our paths crossing is a coincidence?”

Reivon blows a sigh out. “Yeah, sure. I’m following you. I have nothing better to do with my Christmas break than to follow the girl who wrecked my house on her weird spiritual journey to the seashore.”

“Hm.” Onya sits to put on her socks and boots and Reivon flops next to her, braced leg stuck out awkwardly. 

“So Lexa isn’t your sister. You have the same last names, on the lease.”

“Yes,” Onya agrees, “we do.” She laces her left boot. Reivon huffs, and Onya softens, very slightly. She thinks she might be in a good mood. “Is it illegal to light fires on this beach?” she asks.

Reivon stares at her. “I--okay. Fine. Sure. What are we burning?”

//

Tris broke her ankle while they ran for the airstrip. A trip, a bad fall, her whines high and panicked in Onya’s ear as Onya swept her up without breaking stride, Onya’s hand ironclad on Kostia’s wrist as she dragged them along. 

“I can’t,” Tris panted. Leksa burst from the treeline ahead of them, her sword bloody and her eyes too wide. She and Kostia lunged for each other, murmuring and embracing, and Onya braced Tris against a tree, Indra slipping away to make contact with their pilot. 

“ _Yu souda_ ,” Onya said firmly. 

Tris shook her head, tiny braids flapping. “Go without me. Save _Heda_.”

“You are my _seken_ ,” Onya said, and Tris’ head jerked up, her mouth slack and shocked.

“ _Sha_?”

Onya had meant to ask the traditional way, in another year. She had already planned their _tatau_ , matching innerlaid circles that would represent their shared roots, the same village where their parents grew up together. She had meant many things, before Nia Azgeda burned her world to the ground. “ _Sha_ ,” she says, firm. “You are my _seken_ , and _ai gonplei nou ste odon_.”

She reached out a hand and Tris took it, stood on her broken bones. Her face set and she looked more like a Trikru warrior than Onya has ever felt. “ _Sha_ ,” she agreed, and then smiled, quicksilver fast and determined. “If that is what my _fos_ orders.”

//

“It is too wet,” Onya says, frowning. “I will retrieve kindling.” She stands and Reivon throws out a hand, her tongue between her teeth, crouched low.

“If there’s one thing,” she mutters, “I can do---aha!” She sits back, fanning the tiny flame until it snaps to life with a crackle, eating away at the balled up scraps of paper and scrabbly twigs. “It’s start a fire.” Reivon grins up at her, triumphant, and Onya allows herself a faint quirk of the lips in response. 

“ _Sha_ ,” she agrees, bending to feel the heat against her fingers, “so I see.”

“You should see me with a pipe bomb.” Reivon draws her fingers across her lips like a zipper. “Just between housemates, though.”

“Of course,” Onya agrees. She reaches into her jacket pockets and withdraws several bracelets of braided grass. She dangles them from a finger and frowns. “Why are you here? If not to follow me.”

Reivon wiggles her fingers. “I am the fire goddess,” she intones, “I go where I’m needed.” Onya stares at her. Reivon shrugs. Her hand comes up to the back of her head, fidgety. “I just--I like driving up the coast. Stopping at these stupid little frozen beaches. I take pictures.” Her fingers dip into her pocket and come out with a flask. “I get drunk. It’s my holiday tradition. And you’re stalling.”

“Yes,” Onya admits. She frowns harder. “It is--this is.” She growls, falls silent. She shakes herself and closes her eyes. She reaches into herself. She remembers Tris; bright, sharp, good-hearted. She’d died with bloody knuckles, fighting to the last. Onya misses her; Onya knows her spirit is free. “ _Yu gonplei ste odon._ ” She drops the linked circles into the fire and watches the lick of the flames eat the braids away. 

Reivon shivers. “So you’re staying the night? Because it’s like five degrees out here, and I’m not even the one who went for a swim. You need to take a hot shower and eat something.” 

“Yes,” Onya agrees, reluctant.

Reivon rolls her eyes. “We literally live together, I think we can handle staying in the same motel.” She turns and walks up the beach, muttering under her breath in a language Onya doesn’t recognize.

Onya touches two fingers to her lips and swipes them through the top yellow part of the flame, a flicker against her skin. “ _Nia Azgeda will not live to see a soft death_ ,” she promises. She kicks sand over the fire, quenching it. “ _Jus drein jus daun_.”

//

They sat in the cargo hold, the plane rumbling. It’s the loudest noise Onya has ever heard. She clasped her hands tight over Tris’ ears and nudged Leksa to give Kostia some of the root in her pocket to chew on, help with the popping pressure in their ears. Leksa tucked her jacket around Kostia and helped Onya rewrap Tris’ ankle, strapped to the splint Kostia built out of three tree branches and her strength of will. 

Tris passed out, from exhaustion and pain, and Leksa slid to Onya’s side to allow them to speak quietly to each other. “Where are we going?” Leksa asked. 

“ _America_ ,” Onya answered. “Someone will come with resources within the month. Indra is organizing the resistance effort.”

Leksa winced, her hand coming up to the back of her head. “Don’t touch,” Kostia murmured, stirring. She sat up, the blanket falling from her shoulders. “Infection.” Kostia pulled Lexa close by the wrist and kissed the white bandage on the back of her neck, stained bloody. “Does it hurt?”

“No.” Leksa linked her fingers with Kostia’s, tight enough her knuckles turn white. She met Onya’s eyes. “It burns.”

//

“Huh,” Reivon says, closing the door behind them. “I thought you’d get your own room, but uh.” She shrugs, a little twitchy. “Who knew so many people would want a room for the night? Probably because crazy hot chicks are running around the beach naked.” She crunches a vending machine chip between her teeth.

Onya says nothing. She holds out a hand and Reivon hands her the flask. They end up lying sideways on the bed, on their stomach, legs kicking. “ _Mochof_ ,” Onya says, after a few moments. The last drop of alcohol drips from the flask to her mouth. “I owe you a debt.”

“ _Mochof_ ,” Reivon repeats, her tongue fumbling, a little tipsy. “What kind of debt? I accept checks and Diner Club Cards.”

“A question,” Onya decides, “a truth.” Reivon seems the sort to value honesty, even if it hurts more than it soothes. 

Reivon is quiet for a long moment. “What did that mean, what you did?”

Onya is surprised. She’d expected something far more difficult to answer. “A _lupa_. Remembrance.” She leans her head onto her hand and looks at the ceiling, the water stain in the corner. “For the dead.” Onya hesitates--it is, on the surface, enough. Oddly she feels compelled to speak, which for her is so very rare. “It was not quite right. I didn’t have--all the elements needed.” She sighs, melancholy. “Is that what you truly wanted to know?”

“No.” Reivon snags the flask from her limp fingers and curses when she finds it empty. “Bitch.” She hesitates. “What did you and Lexa fight about?”

“Duty,” Onya says, after a pause. “And loss.”

Reivon rolls over, wiggling. Her brace is lying on the cheap carpet but she still moves gingerly, her pantleg shoved up and red dark bruises where the metal dug into her skin. She touches Onya’s ankle. Onya peers at her, unmoving, and Reivon slides her fingers up Onya’s leg, pushing her pants up. She traces her nails across Onya’s _tatau_. “They’re beautiful.”

“They’re meaningful,” Onya corrects. She twitches her right leg. “My village; farmers, and Indr--my teacher’s village, horsemen.” Reivon’s brow furrows, trying to pick out symbols and pictures in the blank ink. Onya lifts her left leg, very slightly. “Leksa. One leg for your past and another for your future, stepping forward.”

Reivon touches the tiny circle inked dark and prominent, angrier and more blurred, in the center of Onya’s left leg. She doesn’t know it, but it’s the addition Kostia had made, with a sewing needle and burned newspaper for black ink, Onya’s foot braced against a shelter bunkbed in the middle of the night, confirming Leska as _Heda_ on Onya’s skin. “Why the left forward?”

“I was left handed.”

“Before your… nerve damage.”

“Yes,” Onya confirms. She feels Reivon pull her pants back down, smoothing over her calves. 

“I used to play soccer,” Reivon offers. She settles back onto the bed, close enough Onya can feel her body, warm, and her spirit flickering at her edges. 

Onya hums. Her eyes grow heavy. There’s sand between her toes. 

“That was way more than one question,” Reivon says. Onya flickers an eye open, vaguely annoyed again. _Skaikru_ and their _talking_. She hums, shorter and more abrupt. Reivon is quiet for a long moment, something building. Onya waits. She has weathered much more than Reivon kom Skaikru’s nervousness. “Why?” Raven asks, and Onya appreciates its simplicity at the same time she acknowledges its complexity. 

She also appreciates how Reivon lets the silence grow and grow, until her breathing is evening out, her fingers twitching once against the mattress before her eyes flutter shut. Onya waits another moment, until she’s not quite sure if Reivon is asleep or not. “Because,” she confesses, “you say my name.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ;-; I'm uh, trying new things with this and I hope the deliberate style shift is... positive. I'm not great at world building and I never even watched all the episodes, and I would love any thoughts you might have!
> 
> let me know what you think and catch me on tumblr @ sunspill


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Road trips and first kisses.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> all the kudos in the world for my smurf <3~

//

They took Leksa from her, once. They’d been told it would happen, assured it will be just for a week, maybe two, long enough to get Onya set up as legal guardian. Leksa and her had agreed, privately, to cooperate. No _skaikru_ home for lost _youngons_ could hold Leksa if she ever wanted to leave, and it’s worth the wait not to be looking over their shoulders for _skaikru_ authorities for the duration of their exile. Onya thinks it will be fine, until someone in a cheap suit takes Leksa by the upper arm. 

The next thing she knows Leksa has pinned her against the wall and she’s panting, straining at Leksa’s arm across her chest. The man is lying prone, eyes shut, arm at an unnatural angle. Kostia bends over him, feeling for a pulse. Another man grabs Leksa across the waist and she shouts, kicking out and throwing her elbow back with a wet crunch. Tris twists and bites the arm of the woman pulling her away, and everyone is shouting, mixed languages and thumps as the men with guns force Onya face first onto the floor, wrenching her arm behind her. Onya twists and smashes her forehead into the soft part of the man’s face. He recoils, his blood flung out warm and sharp on Onya’s cheek, and she--

//

Onya wakes before Reivon. They’re still sideways across the bed; the flask is still dangling from Reivon’s fingers. Onya rolls to her feet without stirring the sleeping girl and shakes her arms out. Her left hand throbs and she cracks her wrist to alleviate some of the pressure. 

Reivon stirs. “What time is it?” she mutters, croaking. Onya looks out the window at the height and brightness of the sun. 

“Seven,” she estimates. “You should sleep more.”

“Mm.” Reivon rolls over, planting her face into the pillow. “Yeah.”

Onya goes into the bathroom. The faucet squeaks when she turns it on, and the water is slightly tepid, but it still feels good against her skin. She blots her face on her sleeve and goes back out, crossing to her jacket tossed over the cheap table. She peels the orange with her nails and nudges Reivon’s shoulder. “Are you asleep?”

“Yes,” Reiven grunts. She snuffles against the thin fabric and Onya dangles a segment to the side of Reivon’s head, nose level. Reivon turns, blinking sleepy eyes. She opens her mouth and Onya slips the fruit against her tongue. Reivon’s lips brush her fingers and she steps back, unnerved. Reivon sits up, flushed in her cheeks. “Uh. Thanks.”

 

Onya nods. She shifts on her feet and casts her gaze to the wall. “I will leave now,” she decides. 

Her boots are strewn against the wall and she steps into them, leaning to do the laces quick and tight. “Wait,” Reivon says, when her hand is on the doorknob. “Wait.”

Onya waits. Reivon scrambles up, scrubbing at her face and hopping as she tries to keep her weight off her bad leg. She tries to take a step and curses, knee buckling. Onya watches, face impassive. “Do you require assistance?”

Reivon takes another, dragging half-step. “Yeah,” she admits, screwing up her face. “Don’t rub it in.” Onya takes her arm and presses her back. Reivon yelps when she lands on the bed. “Hey!”

Onya kneels on the floor at her feet and slides fingers up her calf, around her knee with gentle, soothing pressure, and up her thigh. Reivon makes a noise, high and squeaky. “Hush,” Onya says, impatient. “ _You do yourself no favors_ ,” she mutters, and massages, varying the pressure, starting slow and ramping up. 

“Ohh,” Reivon breathes. She flops back against the mattress and stretches her arms over her head. “Fuck. That’s good.”

She’s not looking and Onya allows herself a small smile. “There are stretches,” she says, digging her thumbs into a particular spot and watching Reivon arch faintly, little sighs, “it would help.”

“I usually do.” Reivon props herself up on her elbows. “I was going to ask you something, before.”

Onya tilts her head, acknowledging. “Yes.”

“I have a truck. Well, it’s not mine, per se, but. I have a truck, and a few places to hit. Another beach, a few parks. I wouldn’t hate having someone to go dutch on gas with, split the driving. The truck bed is big enough for your bike.” Onya’s fingers pause and Reivon twitches. 

“I am not good company,” Onya says. She watches Reivon’s face. 

“I know,” Reivon says. Her hair is mussed on one side, her makeup smudged from the corner of her eye. 

Onya starts massaging again. “Alright,” she agrees.

//

Onya’s lawyer tells her to keep her mouth shut. He takes pictures with his cellphone of the burns on her chest where they sparked electricity through her body. He says he will take care of everything, and murmurs low before he leaves _we burn for Heda_. Onya shuffles back to her cot, and lies on her back, watching the girls size her up from the corners of her eyes. 

Someone pushes her in line for the bathroom, testing. Onya breaks two of her fingers and the collarbone of her friend who tries to sucker punch Onya from the side. The guards shove her against the wall and walk her in heavy chains to a small dark room. She sits in the middle on the cold concrete floor and is able to meditate for the first time since Trigeda burned.

//

Onya likes the truck. She rolls the window down and leans the chair back, propping her feet on the door into the cool air. Her sunglasses sit on her nose just right and it’s cold in the best way, a chill that keeps her awake and ruffles her hair. Reivon drives slow, muttering about old trucks and something about gears and cylinders Onya doesn’t bother trying to understand. The radio crackles with static and Onya tunes it out, preferring the sound of cars passing and the rumble of the engine, tires crunching over the road. 

“Tell me something about you,” Reivon says. Onya stays silent, eyes hidden, face tilted away towards the window, and Reivon rolls her eyes. “The radio’s shit and if I fall asleep we both die.” Onya slouches a little lower and Reivon sighs. “Okay, fine. I’ll go first--” she slaps the horn and shouts something out the window in a _gonasleng_ Onya doesn’t understand. She mutters, dark, then brightens. “Okay, so. The first time I met Clarke, she was kissing my boyfriend.”

Onya’s head jerks to her, surprised. Her glasses slide slightly down her nose and Reivon flicks her gaze at her, their eyes meeting. 

“Yeah. So you know, screaming and shouting and all that. And then! We find out we’re roommates.” Reivon casts a smug grin her way. “Yeah. Bet you thought this would be boring. Anyway, she spent most of her time in Octavia’s room. And I hated her almost as much as I hated him.” She pauses to clear her throat. “And then I got sick. Walking pneumonia.” She half shrugs. “Clarke took care of me. The day after I could breathe deep without coughing, we did tequila shots and burned his picture on the basketball court. Campus security wrote us both up and we threw up together the next morning. We’ve been friends ever since.” She stops. She bites her lip, watching the road, and Onya gropes for something to say.

“What is pneumonia?” she asks. 

“Sickness,” Reivon tells her, looking pleased at the evidence Onya was listening. “Like a cold, but a million times worse. Oh! And then Clarke caught it from me, and we got drunk with Octavia and tried to infect her partner from Stats because he was roommates with Finn’s frat brother, but--”

“I don’t care,” Onya tells her.

Reivon pretends not to hear. “But then _Bellamy_ got it, and started spilling secrets during his fever dreams, and suddenly the boys soccer coach is knocking on doors trying to decipher the great Pneumonia Conspiracy of the Century--”

“If I tell you something,” Onya asks, “will you stop talking?”

“Absolutely.”

Onya frowns out the window. There’s a long dragging moment of silence. “I met Leksa when I was seventeen,” she says, slow. “She was--she _is_ \--the greatest fighter I have ever met.” She shifts in the seat. “An excellent strategist. A born leader.” She falls silent, satisfied with her response.

“Lexa,” Reivon says, very carefully, “is all of those things, I am sure. But I want to know something about _you_.” Onya frowns. She crosses her arms over her chest. “I could tell you about the time Clarke stole sixteen office chairs from the anthropology department and cried in the bathtub because she thought she was going to go to federal prison.”

“I was born in a river,” Onya blurts. She blinks at herself. “I was born in a river,” she repeats, soft.

“Yeah?” Reivon looks at her, brief. “Is that--good?”

“My _nom_ \--my mother thought so.” 

“ _Nomon_ ,” Reivon says, and grins. “I learned a little from Octavia, you know. Roommates.”

“Rivers are a good sign,” Onya says, unsure why she’s offering more information. “For my people.”

“Because of farming stuff?” Reivon’s voice is bright and genuinely curious. “Like… water for the crops.”

“Perhaps, as the origin. My village was near the largest river in Trigeda. We used to have festivals on it, when it froze.” Onya smiles, caught in memory. “Candles on lilypads in the summer.” She remembers learning to swim in that river; she remembers sitting on its grassy banks with a stem of wheat in between her teeth and Tris and Leksa sharing fresh honeycomb, their poles dipped in the water to catch fish for lunch. 

“It sounds beautiful,” Reivon offers. “Your mother must have planned that well. A good omen, right?”

“It was a surprise.” Onya drums her fingers on the door, her face creasing slightly as she tries to remember the old stories her mother had told her. “She felt the pain and waded in. My father was away. My eldest brother cut the cord and dipped my face beneath the surface.” She clears her throat, shifting. “It is a good omen,” she agrees. 

“Raven means dark,” Reivon says. “My mom was--here, sometimes, if you’re dark skinned, you can get some shit. My mom wanted me to be proud of my heritage.” She smiles, fleeting. “She was cool, in the beginning.”

“Reivons are clever,” Onya says. “They have long memories.” She’d known the little family of reivons that lived near the silo in her village. They used to swoop the boys, screeching, and bring the girls little pebbles from the forest. 

“They can fly,” Reivon says, wistful. “I used to wish I could fly away.” 

Onya studies her. “You are not close with your mother.”

Reivon’s hands jerk on the steering wheel. “It’s not--it’s better, now. She tries.”

“But you’re not spending _Kristmas_ with her.”

Reivon’s fingers flex. She breathes quietly. “No.”

Onya feels as though she may have overstepped. “I miss my mother,” she says. It feels inadequate, and she drops her hands to her lap, unsettled. 

“Me too,” Reivon says, after a long moment. They don’t talk again for forty miles.

//

Leksa and Kostia come to visit, hands linked. Leksa has a black eye and Onya growls. “ _You shouldn’t leave Tris alone_.”

“ _Shof op_.” Lexa glares. “ _Stop picking fights. We’re getting you out of here._ ”

“ _I don’t pick fights. I end them_.”

Leksa rolls her eyes. “ _I’m going to put some money in your account. Buy a comb and a sweet, and play nice._ ” She stalks off, but not before dropping a hand to the double layered plastic separating them. “ _Ste yuj._ ”

“ _She worries_.” Kostia slides into Leksa’s vacated seat. “ _We both do._ ”

“ _I don’t matter. Only Leksa matters_.”

“ _Not so_ ,” Kostia says, sharp. She softens. “ _Your lawyer says you’re being held in solitary. I have read it is the cruelest punishment_.” She touches the tabletop, gentle empathy. “ _I’m sorry_.”

Onya has felt her fingers broken at every joint, slow and twisting. Nia dragged her youngest _bro_ before her and slit his bruised throat; she can still taste the ash of her village on her tongue. Solitary is quiet, and cool, and dark, and Onya sits on the floor with her nails against the stone and thinks and thinks and seethes. 

“ _I do not mind it_ ,” Onya says, and calls the guard to take her away.

//

They stop at a gas station and Onya buys Reivon a pair of sunglasses and a soda. Reivon is leaning against the side of the truck, watching the the gas counter tick, and Onya offers her the glasses. “I will drive,” she half-states half-asks. 

“Okay.” 

They climb in and the doors thump shut, heavy. Onya turns the engine over and listens to Reivon’s murmured instructions. “Where are we going?”

Reivon does up her seatbelt and slouches low. “A national park. There’s a river I like, shouldn’t be frozen over yet.”

Onya nods. The radio is off. She taps her fingers on the wheel, quiet. “I fell out of a tree once,” she says. “When I was five. I broke my collarbone.”

Reivon slips the sunglasses over her eyes and presses her head against the window. “I’m gonna take a nap.”

Onya turns the radio on. It crackles, sharp, and bursts out a string of sound, jarring, garbled guitar, before falling back to steady white noise.

//

Onya stepped out of prison into the sun and felt its warmth on her skin. Leksa clasps her forearm and Tris hits her chest in a hug. She has grown a little, and Onya holds her close for a second before pulling away. 

Onya stands in front of a judge and says what her lawyer tells her to. The judge says many things she doesn’t understand, but at the end she signs the papers and the lawyer says she is free, and Leksa and Tris and Kostia are hers. He drives them to an apartment with broken window and creaky floors. Onya can hear the rats in the walls, skittering. He shakes her hand the _skaikru_ way and wishes her luck. They watch him drive away and when Onya turns they are looking at her. 

“ _Now what_?” Tris asks, and Onya doesn’t know.

//

The park is beautiful. Onya didn’t know there were such places in this country. She flies out of the truck, not bothering to remove the keys, shoving her sunglasses off, and takes a deep breath. She kicks her shoes off and peels her socks away and sinks her toes into the cold rich earth. 

Reivon walks to her shoulder. “So you’re a nature girl.”

Onya looks out at the trees and the flowers and the bright blue sky. The air is sweeter here, the colors more vivid. “Yes,” she says, soft, “I think I am.”

 

Reivon takes a camera from her bag and they walk on the faintest trails, the grass on their legs and the birds chittering from their branches. Reivon pauses every so often, to get just the right angle, sometimes taking long minutes, and Onya ranges around her, impatient to feel the small stones under her feet and the tree bark against her palms. She scales one, barefoot and sure handed, and when she slides down Reivon is smiling. “It looks good on you,” she says.

Onya brushes dirt off her palms. “What does?”

“Happiness.”

Onya doesn’t know what to say to that. There is a flutter in her belly, just below her chest. She touches Reivon’s wrist and turns. “Do you want to climb with me?”

“What?” Reivon stares. “No, I couldn’t--”

“It is a sturdy tree. And I am strong.”

Onya climbs a tree with Reivon on her back and a camera around her neck. They sit near the top, Reivon’s fingers tight and nervous on the branch and Onya’s legs kicking lazily, and eat the sunflower seeds Reivon had fished out of the glove compartment. Onya spits the seed shells at a curious chipmunk and coaxes it to sit on her arm. 

“Christ,” Reivon says, her camera snapping, “it’s like you’re a Disney Princess.”

Onya wonders if Reivon would smile that little soft smile if she knew how many people Onya has seen lain dead at her feet, by her hands. She lowers her hand and watches the chipmunk scamper away. 

//

Onya got a job in a grocery store. She stocks shelves in a green apron, brow furrowed as she struggles to become fluent in _gonasleng_ ’s squiggled written letters. The manager calls her slow and once tried to kiss her near the loading bay. She kneed him in the groin and opened a knife at his throat and told him, very soft, that she will be receiving the pay raise and transfer to the night inventory shift. 

She walks the others to the school Leksa had enrolled them in every morning and collects them in the afternoon. She brings discount food home from her job, dented cans and ripped boxes, and Tris learns how to work their mercurial stove, Leksa hunched at the table over her books. Kostia starts a tiny garden on the windowsill, and Onya touches the little green sproutlings before she locks the windows up, drawing the curtains and barring the door before she goes to work. She reminds them to be careful and turns off the lights, and Leksa sleeps with a knife in her hand.

//

Onya lingers just outside where they parked. The sun is setting and the air is cold and she loves the first sparkle of the stars in the sky. “We could sleep here,” Reivon offers, from behind her.

Onya turns. “We could?”

Reivon shrugs. “Move the bike out of the back and lay out the blankets. It’ll get cold, but it’s possible.”

“I would--” Onya faces her fully. “I would enjoy that.”

 

Onya rolls her bike out of the truck and Reivon lays out the blankets and they put on their coats and take off their shoes and curl up under the moon. “I fell down the stairs when I was six,” Reivon says, lying on her back. “My mom was drunk. I was trying to help her to her bedroom.”

Onya rolls onto her side to face her. “I did not mean to cause you discomfort.”

“Not your fault. She really is better now.” Onya doesn’t say anything. She knows actions in the future can never negate decisions in the past. Reivon clears her throat, dragging one hand across her face. “Anyway. I also fell of the swings in fourth grade.” She wrestles with her sleeve, dragging it back. “Look.”

Onya looks. There’s a jagged line of white skin, a scar about the length of Onya’s smallest finger. Onya pulls her collar down, exposing a small lump on her breastbone. “From the tree.”

Reivon wiggles, pushing the blanket off. A slicing curved line across her ankle bone. “Kicked a window out and the glass got me.”

Onya shows her two dark spots on her ribcage, the air making her shiver as she lifts her shirt. “Taser.”

“Damn.” Reivon leans close, peering in the light of the stars and the moon. She touches two fingers to the dots. “A badass,” she says, teasing, and her teeth glint in her smile. Onya smiles back.

Reivon shivers, and Onya hesitates for only half a second before touching her elbow, feather light. “It will only get colder… if you’d like--?”

Onya falls asleep with Reivon’s breath on her cheek and their shoulders pressed tight, the blankets tucked around them both, ankles brushing. Onya can’t remember the last time she ever slept so close to someone. She thinks it might have been in the county jail cell, Leksa tucked against her side while they waited for their lawyer, her shoulders shaking in silent sobs of violent grief and consuming rage, Kostia and Trish dead in the morgue beneath them.

//

The first time Onya woke screaming she was still in solitary. Her shouts echoed in her tiny room and a guard banged on her door until she slapped her palms over her mouth and shook. The second time was the third night after Tris and Kostia died and she woke to find herself pinning Leksa to the wall, her fist pulled back and Lexa’s lip bloodied. The last was their first night in the house with _Klark_ sharing a wall, and Leksa woke her after only one shout, quiet and comforting, her hand on Onya’s shoulder. 

“A dream,” is all she said when Octavia asked the next morning, tentative. Leksa walked into their room a day later and tossed a tin at Onya’s chest. Some kind of tea, and Onya sniffs the top and makes a satisfied noise. 

“ _From_ Octavia,” Leksa had told her, arching an eyebrow. “ _They are not so bad_.”

Onya had scoffed and rolled her eyes. The tea lay forgotten near her pillow as she rose to for her run, and she found it there the next night, waking with a jolt and controlling her breathing so she doesn’t wake Leksa, who doesn’t sleep enough as it is. She sprinkles the dry loose leaves under her pillow and lets the smell remind her she’s in the only place she’s slept without having to spill blood.

//

Onya nudges Reivon while it’s still dark. “Come,” she whispers, and takes Reivon’s hand to help her walk across the uneven rocky ground to a large stone overlooking the river. They sit and watch the sunrise, and Reivon naps with Onya’s jacket under her head while Onya finds a tree branch and a few worms and rips her sock into strips to fashion a fishing pole. She catches two fat trout and sinks small rocks into a circle with her feet to start a fire. 

“Well,” Reivon says when she wakes, bemused to find a fire crackling and the smell of cooking fish heavy in the air. “At least I’ve got a solid answer for who I’d want to be deserted on an island with.”

Onya smells like morning fire and cheap coffee from a tin cup and river water and she smiles big when she drops the fish, wrapped in big leaves, into Reivon’s hands. She stretches out in the grass and feels her pants dry in the sun, listening to Reivon eat and murmur appreciatively. “I like it here,” she says, watching the clouds float across the sky. She touches her chest, above her heart. “I think I am happy, in this moment.”

“Me too,” Reivon says, leaning over her and looking fond. “Although just so you know, I think every single thing about what we’ve done here today has been illegal.”

Onya shrugs. 

“Hey,” Reivon says, standing. “Look.” She kicks off her pants, leaving her in boyshort underwear and socks. “I win.” She sits next to Onya and pokes at her injured knee. “Car accident. Mom was blitzed.”

Onya reaches over and hovers her hand over the surgical scars. Reivon exhales, soft, and Onya traces the white lines with a single finger. “Does the cold make it worse?”

Reivon shakes her head. “The heat, actually. It swells.” She lays her hand over Onya’s and presses down. “There’s metal screws in, feel them?”

“Yes.” Reivon drops her hand and Onya rubs the back of her neck, hesitating. She strips her shirt off and turns around. She knows Reivon has seen when her breath catches. She looks at the ground and breathes, even and quiet, and when Reivon’s fingers touch her she jolts.

“Sorry,” Reivon says. “Do they hurt?”

“No. It’s--I can only feel pressure, around them.” Onya turns around and Reivon’s hand is still hovering in the air. Her eyes look wet. She crowds forward and her nose bumps Onya’s. 

“What happened to you,” she breathes, and Onya kisses her, closed mouth and open eyes, sleep dry lips. When she leans back and licks her lips, she tastes Reivon, instant coffee and woodsmoke.

“Life,” Onya tells her, “the same thing that happened to you.”

“Yeah,” Reivon says, and surges forward. Onya’s fingers slip beneath her shirt, trailing over warm skin, and Reivon slides into her lap, bearing her down. Onya feels dew under her back on the blades of grass, and the heat from the fire flickers on her toes. Reivon’s thighs are bare, bracketing her hips, and their warmth seeps into Onya’s sides. Her mouth opens under Reivon’s tongue and she makes a noise in her chest, half-broken. She pulls away and Reivon sits up on her hips, blinking. 

“We should go,” Onya says, looking away. “If you want to make it to your beach by nightfall.”

Reivon is silent, and Onya pulls her shirt on with fumbling fingers. “Yeah,” Reivon says finally, and they pack up the truck in silence. Reivon gets behind the wheel and Onya closes her eyes with her head tipped back in the passenger seat until she falls into an uneasy doze.

//

Onya’s first sparring partner had been a boy born the same year as her. He was politely respectful and soft spoken and his equipment always shone, but when their teachers weren’t watching his eyes glinted and he aimed his strikes to injure. He wrapped his training weapons in cloth and hid pointed thistles in their tips, and breathed harder every time he made Onya bleed, even as he spoke his fake apologies. 

He’d been with Nia, in the end, and Onya thinks it’s less of a want for power than the opportunity to slaughter mindlessly. He’d come into her cell with a crown of thorns and a whip and hadn’t checked to make sure her feet were bound--she’d snapped his neck with her legs and watched him die on the floor, a thorn embedded in her eyebrow. The blood dripped over her eye, blinding her, and the last thing she saw was his hate, carved into his dying face.

//

Reivon reaches for her shoulder and Onya grabs her by the wrist in mid-air, eyes snapping open. It’s dark outside, and Onya feels disoriented. “We’re here,” Reivon says, and gets out of the car. Onya shakes herself. She slides from the cab of the truck and smells the ocean, sharp and salty. “I thought we could sleep on the beach,” Reivon says, stretching a short distance away. “Still illegal and we could both use a shower, but.” She shrugs. “If you want.”

“I do,” Onya says. She helps Reivon carry blankets onto cool sand and they walk in the surf, their pants rolled up and eating beef jerky out of a gas station package. “I could start a fire,” Onya offers, and Reivon shakes her head. 

“I’m tired,” she says. She sits on the blankets. “If you don’t want--”

“I do.” Onya slides beside Reivon and draws the blanket around them. There’s sand between her toes, gritty, and Reivon’s back is warm against her chest. She lays an arm across Reivon’s waist, hesitant, and Reivon slides a foot between her ankles. “There’s something,” Onya whispers against the back of her neck. “Tomorrow. I’d like your help.”

“Okay,” Reivon whispers back. Her body goes lax against Onya’s, relaxing. “It’s a date.”

//

Onya’s first love was a _fisa_ trainee, a boy with summer sky eyes. He’d practiced his stitches on her arm and talked quietly of the fruit orchards in his village. The day he’d partnered with her to teach her which herbs numb pain and which flowers have poison petals, he’d plucked a wildflower from a vine and tucked it behind her ear. It had fallen out when they’d kissed, his back against an oak tree. 

They’d snuck out at night to hold hands in the forest and touched each other with eager fumbling fingers in a meadow, the stars shining on their skin. Onya shivered when she came for the first time, all her words stopped up in her chest, and he’d breathed wetly into the side of her neck, her legs drawn around him, and they trembled together as one, under the moon.

He left for a posting in the next largest city, a full day’s walk away, and Onya had squeezed his fingers when they shook hands goodbye. It is a good first love, Onya realizes, when she hears the others talk late at night in the warrior barracks. It has remained, in her mind, a good memory. She wonders if he’s still alive. She hopes he is.

//

Reivon watches her dig through her bike’s saddlebag, and obediently held her hands out for the things Onya passes her. A small bundle wrapped in a cloth and held shut with leather straps, a bundle of newspapers, a smoothed stick she’d found in the park two days earlier, the length of her forearm. 

“It’s early as hell,” Reivon grumbles, shivering as she follows Onya down to the where the water laps at the land. 

Onya squints at the horizon. “Yes,” she says, absent. The fire is crackling and she tosses a final twig into it. She plucks the bundle from Reivon’s hands and unwraps it. “This is from my land,” she says, crouching. “It is the only thing I have brought from--from home.”

Reivon hunches next to her. “Yeah?” Her voice is curious, and interested, and Onya nods. 

“There are bone needles.” Onya shows her the tool. “From turtle shells, and boar tusks.” She touches a fingerpad to the edge of one and feels the prick of pain. A drop of her blood wells up, dark, and she smears it gently across the row of needles. “To wake their hunger.” She dips it into the surf. “To sharpen their thirst.”

“At sunrise? And always at the ocean?”

“Yes.” Onya lets the water rush through the needles, numbingly cold on her skin. “The only time I’ve seen the ocean was when I received the tattoos on my legs. Would you like to pray with me?”

Reivon takes Onya’s free hand in her own, the bundle and stick and newspapers behind them in the sand, and the wind ruffles their hair, the sun breaking over the water, and Reivon says the words after Onya does, stuttering over the unfamiliar language. 

“You’re making me nervous,” Reivon says, when Onya stamps the fire out and draws the stick through the hot ash before drawing on the skin on her upper thigh, pants cast aside. “You’re sure you know what you're doing?”

“My skill should not be your concern.” Onya finished the pattern and blows, gently. She takes the square piece of wood, the needles embedded deep, and touches their teeth. She offers it to Reivon. “I cannot do it myself.”

Reivon recoils, hands up. “Oh no, I don’t think so.”

“The pattern is there. Hold it over the line and tap.” She nudges the stick closer to Reivon. “Tap there first--” she points at the smoldering newspapers “--for ink.”

“This is some prison shit,” Reivon protests. “How about I open yelp on my phone, and we just--”

“Reivon.”

Reivon takes the tools from her hands and then stops, shaking her head. “No, you want Clarke for this, the artist. Or Octavia, she always wins at operation, I--”

“I don’t want Klark. I don’t want Okteivia.” Onya lays back on the sand and bends her knee, raising her thigh up. “I pick you.”

Reivon licks her lips. “Okay.” She runs the needles through the newspapers and rests them on the first line on Onya’s skin. They prickle. “Just--don’t be mad if I fuck up.”

“Little taps,” Onya tells her. The first one is tentative, and Reivon winces. “Harder,” Onya says, and then-- “yes, like that. I’ll tell you when to stop.”

The gulls are calling to each other and the sun rises huge and orange and the sea roars and glitters and Reivon breathes, soft, and the needles _taptaptap_ into her skin. Reivon’s hair tickles her where she’s bent close to her work, using a cloth to wipe the blood and ash away. It takes a long time.

It’s a simple pattern; Onya is no artist and neither is Reivon. It is Tris’ clan name, in the old runes, blocky. If Onya had truly been her _fos_ it would be sacrilege, to honor her this way. Something with vines, Onya thinks, done by a true _kakau_ , or maybe a broken arrow, to honor a warrior’s death. But Onya never got to say her oath or bind their blood, and Tris never got to die with a sword in her hand, and they all have to do the best with the hands they’re dealt.

 

Onya washes her tattoo in the ocean and welcomes the sting. She lies on the sand and Reivon wanders around the beach, taking pictures. Onya puts her pants back on and they walk up a quarter mile to a taco truck and eat on a pier, legs dangling. Onya leans back on her hands and tilts her head into the sun; Reivon snaps her photo with a smile leaking out from behind the black body of the camera lens.

Onya stands with her feet sinking into the sand and the water on her toes and Reivon builds a sandcastle, sticking a leaf into the top tower. The surf takes it away. 

“C’mere,” Reivon says, when the sun starts to hang low, and Onya takes off her pants so Reivon can check her tattoo, faintly red. “Does it hurt?”

“Yes.” Onya watches Reivon’s fingers linger on her skin. “It should.”

Reivon lowers her head and kisses the center of the design. She looks at Onya through her lashes. “I think you’ve had enough hurt.”

Onya swallows. “Oh?”

“We both have.” Reivon kisses her, slow, and waits until Onya’s arm curls around her shoulder, pulling her closer, before slipping her tongue in Onya’s mouth. There’s sand on her lips, gritty, and their noses bump, awkward. Reivon stands, shucking her jeans, and Onya pulls her shirt over her head. Reivon settles behind her, kissing Onya sideways, slack open mouth and panting breaths, before running gentle lips down the map of scars on Onya’s back. 

“Your leg,” Onya says, turning fully and tugging Revin’s shirt off. She kisses above the cup of Reivon’s bra and Reivon fumbles to undo the clasp and bare her chest. 

“It’s fine,” Reivon says. 

The sand slips under them, tangling in their hair, and sea spray droplets mist their skin. Reivon speaks in soft noises, encouraging and pleased, and Onya murmurs only one word, _please_ , just before she comes, spine arched. Reivon is smaller under her than Onya thought she would be, and softer, drenched velvet around Onya’s slim thrusting fingers. Her hips rise and fall with the movements of Onya’s wrist, and when she comes with a gasp it’s drowned out by the crashing waves. 

//

Leksa drew the design the summer before her final year in high school. Kostia has a job at a local restaurant and Tris is buried in books, trying to jump a year in math. She has spoken, hesitantly, about hoping to work with Leksa on the education system. “ _When things have settled_ ,” she rushes to assure them, and Leksa and Onya trade fond proud looks. 

“ _A fine idea_ ,” Leksa tells her. She pulls Onya aside into the kitchen, and hands her the crumpled notebook paper. Onya looks and immediately knows.

“ _You are very young_ ,” she says, hesitant. “ _As Heda_ \--”

“ _Do you know what they taught us_?” Leksa interrupts. “ _What one of the pillars of being Heda is_?” Onya looks at her, suspicious.

“ _Nou._ ”

“ _Compassion_.” Leksa takes the paper back from Onya’s hands. “ _I cannot do this without her. _” She looks through the window to the fire escape, where Kostia is watering her seedlings in one of Leksa’s shirts. “ _She is in my heart_.” __

“ _Then I approve_.” Onya clasps Leksa’s shoulder. " _Congratulations_.” 

Leksa blushes, faint and pleased. “ _I am going to ask her in the winter._ ” Her face goes sappy. “ _She loves the snow._ ” 

Onya makes a noise of agreement. “ _I will send word for a kakau. There must be at least one in this land_.” 

“ _I thought you could do it_ ,” Leksa says, deceptively casual. Onya gapes. “ _Things are changing, Onya. There is no one more important to me than Kostia. And no one I would honor more to link us than you_.” 

There is a lump in Onya’s throat, bittersweet joy. “ _Sha_ ,” she says, and they smile at each other. “ _In the winter._ ” 

Leksa buys candles and hides them around the apartment. She means to set them up in the front yard, after the first snow, and ask Kostia on bended knee, the way they do in _skaikru_ movies. Onya cleans the bone needles and readies the ink. She saves up a little money and Tris plans to bake a cake. Nia finds them before the snow does. 

// 

Onya tucks the blanket around Reivon’s sleeping form and leaves a note on the truck’s dashboard. She walks her bike up the road for a long while, until the noise won’t reach Reivon, and rumbles away with sleep still in the corners on her eyes. 

She stops at a gas station and charges her phone. There are six missed calls, and when she dials Leksa picks up on the first ring, furious. “ _Onya_.” 

“ _I am well_.” 

“ _I will call_ ,” Leksa says, mocking and accusing all at once, “ _I will text. I will not disappear for days without a single word after an argument._ ” 

“ _It wasn’t an argument._ ” Leksa growls. “ _I am well. How is Klark_?” 

There’s a brief, faintly embarrassed silence. “ _You always know,_ ” Leksa sighs, affectionate. Onya feels her lips quirk up. 

“ _I learned all your tells as a youngon. Can’t hide it now_.” 

“ _Kristmas is in two days._ ” Leksa pauses and Onya can hear her swallow. “Clarke _is having people over._ Raven and Octavia will be there.” Onya is silent. “It is--a day for family.” 

Onya looks at her arm. There a soft bruise blooming in the mark of Reivon’s teeth on the inside of her wrist, where she bit down when Onya rocked against her. “ _I will see you at the memorial._ ” 

Leksa makes a noise, small, but her voice doesn’t shake. “ _Sha_.” She hangs up before Onya can say goodbye. 

// 

The police release them and give them a voucher for a motel room. Leksa hasn’t spoken since she gave her statement, monotoned, to the detectives. The younger one pulls Onya aside and gives her a pamphlet on grief and free counseling sessions. Onya tucks it into a pocket and has to pull Leksa out of the car, her eyes flat. She walks her into the room and pushes the cheap desk in front of the door, drawing the blinds and throwing the blankets and sheets from the twin beds onto the floor. There’s blood on Leksa’s face and under her nails, and Onya sits her on the closed toilet to clean her, wetting the towel at the tepid sink. 

She’s washing her own hands when Leksa shudders and collapses in on herself, imploding silently with clenched fists and jagged breathing. She drags at her own hair, too hard, and struggles when Onya catches her hands. They topple into the shower curtain, ripping the cheap aluminum pole out of the wall. “ _Leksa_ ,” Onya says, her own grief a hole in her chest, and Leksa hits her across the face, splitting her lip. 

Onya retreats, not raising her arms, and lets Leksa hit her twice more, high on her cheek and once in the chest, Onya dropping her shoulder to avoid injury. Then she grabs Leksa around the waist, falling into the shower stall and lying sprawled against the cold moldy tile, Leksa shaking in her arms, her fingers clawing at Onya’s leg. “ _No_ ,” she whispers, head hanging, and it’s so quiet in the room, their breathing the only noise. The air conditioned kicks in, humming and clanking, and Only closes her eyes and holds Leksa close. “ _No_ ,” Leksa whispers again, broken, and Onya presses her tongue into her lip until it bleeds, the small hurt chasing the rest of her thoughts away. 

// 

Onya parks her bike and walks into the park. Chairs are being set up, the pyre is being built. Linkon nods at her from the small stage, arranging a podium, and she raises a hand in acknowledgement. Quinn is smoking a cigarette to the side, and quirks an eyebrow at her when she plucks it from his mouth. “Do we have peace between us now?" 

"As much as we ever do.” Onya finishes the cigarette and puts it out in the snow before tucking the butt into her boot. “ _Heda is coming today_." 

“And you’ll kill me if I speak wrong?” 

"No.” Onya takes the pack from his hands tucks them into her coat pocket. “She will.” 

Linkon helps her darken her eyesockets, and Onya lurks in the treeline, on edge, while people filter in. She knows several of them, and they nod to each other. Leksa arrives just before it begins, and Onya doesn’t miss the flash of blonde hair in the audience. She arches an eyebrow and Leksa looks back, challenging. 

Onya finds her after the speech. “ _Heda_.” 

“ _Onya_.” Klark is standing there, eyes wide. 

"I’ll wait in the car,” she says, but Leksa catches her by the wrist. 

“Stay. Please.” She takes a step sideways, towards Onya. “ _Did you enjoy my speech_? 

" _It was incendiary_.” It had been, full of promises for blood and vengeance. 

“ _We will have our blood. Then we can rebuild; stronger, better. But not before they’ve answered for what they’ve done._ ” 

" _Jus drein jus daun_ ,” Onya agrees. 

Leksa kneels before her and Onya draws the _Heda_ wings over her face, around her eyes, the ash hot on her fingers. She hesitates at the last part, and Leksa looks at her, head tilted. She nods, and Onya beckons to Klark. 

Klark's hand shakes, and she doesn’t understand what it means, what she’s doing, and Onya guides her into the smoking ash and over Leksa’s skin, staining, and wonders if this, too, will end with Leksa alone, hunched over in grief, blood on her knuckles. She wonders if she will be alive to see it end. 

// 

Onya’s _nontu_ had been a baker. She remembers sitting in the window with flour on her clothes, listening as he told her stories between thumps of his hands in the dough. Her _bro_ ran through, shrieking, tracking mud onto the floor and clambering at his feet for the sweet pastry balls he keeps in his pockets. They run off as soon as they receive what they want, and Onya likes it better when they’re gone. She listens to him hum, and the hissroar of the oven. She smells rising bread and watches him grind the meal. 

“My quiet girl,” he calls her, fond, and dips the heels of the loaves in the spiced butter before giving them to her with a wink. They leave her fingers shiny. 

Her teachers tell her parents she is too quiet. They encourage them to make her play in the games every weekend, races and sparring and agility in the clearing just fifteen minutes away. Her _nomon_ agrees. Onya comes back from her first day at the games with bruised knuckles and a bruise the side of her palm on her cheek, and her _nomon_ clucks and mutters. 

Her _nontu_ gives her a sweet and holds a finger to his lips before mussing her hair. “My quiet girl,” he says, but his face is slightly strange. “You will never be a farmer.” 

The _gona_ come to her village a month later. When they leave for the capital, Onya goes with them. 

// 

Onya joins Leksa for the New Year. She sips her beer and watches Leksa and Klark move around each other in increasingly small circles. She’s in the bathroom washing her hands when Reivon steps in, closing the door behind her. Onya looks at her in the mirror. “You are angry with me,” she guesses. 

“Yes. You did a shitty thing." 

Onya turns, leaning against the counter. “They are not my secrets to tell.” 

Reivon rolls her eyes. “I don’t need your deep dark past. I just needed you to tell me to my face, instead of running off while I was sleeping.” 

Onya crosses her arms. “Tell you what?” 

"Whatever. It was a mistake, you regret it, I’m far, far too much for you to handle, whatever.” Onya steps forward but doesn’t respond, mouth open, throat working, and Reivon huffs. She throws her hands into the air, exasperated, and turns to leave. 

"I am not a soft person,” Onya says, looking at the floor. Reivon pauses with her hand on the doorknob. “I am not ashamed of it, but I will not deny it." 

“I never asked you to be soft. I don’t expect it." 

“Perhaps you deserve more than what you ask for.” 

Reivon makes a noise, frustrated growl, and spins. Onya retreats, bumping against the counter, and Reivon steps close, nose flared. “Perhaps I can make my own goddamn decisions,” she snaps, and kisses Onya, tooth and snarl. She bites Onya’s lip when she pulls away, and Onya sways to her, pulse pounding. Her thigh throbs where Reivon had bent over her body and carved new lines into her skin. Reivon blinks. Her face softens. Outside, her friends laugh, muted cheer. “Happy New Year, Onya.” Onya blinks at her, and Reivon drops her hands from where they’d fallen to Onya’s waist. She turns away. 

Onya catches her by the wrist after her first step, pulling her back. This kiss is soft. Careful sliding of gentle lips, beer and cranberry juice, vodka and the cigarette Onya had smoked in the driveway, the smallest touch of their tongues. “Happy New Year, Reivon,” Onya says, and stands very still while Reivon leaves, the door clicking shut behind her. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MY SMURF IS THE GREATEST SMURF OF ALL TIME
> 
> makes hearteyes for the rest of my life @iamthegaysmurf the bestest most best ever what would I do without her
> 
>  
> 
> as always, let me know your thoughts and catch me on tumblr @ sunspill, especially if you have anya headcanons you want to share O_O


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> going home, and secrets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my smurf helped me plot, write, and edit this \o//

After two weeks of listening to Leksa whisper _Kostia_ in her sleep and watching her cast fond, adoring looks towards the _fisa_ wing, Onya tracks down Kostia near the kitchens. The girl draws up short, recognition dawning, before looking away and scurrying down the hall. Onya steps in her path, stopping her short. “Kostia.”

The girl lifts her head, jaw setting. “Onya.”

Onya says nothing, studying her. Kostia’s hands are behind her back but her face is set, mulish, and she waits. Onya moves her hand towards her sword, sudden, and Kostia flinches. Onya slips the folded scrap of paper out of her belt. “From Leksa.”

“ _Mochof_.” There is another short pause. “Can I help you with anything else?”

Onya makes her eyes go flat and glinty. Kostia swallows. “Maybe,” Onya says. “But not yet.” She steps to the side. Kostia stays still for another second, then walks away, shoes whispering on the stone floor.

//

Onya crosses her arms and glares. “ _You overstep_ ,” she accuses.

Leksa sighs. “I know. _But I ask anyway_.”

“ _She is that important to you._ ”

Onya watches Leksa’s face ripple before going blank. “I think so.”

Onya frowns. She touches Leksa’s shoulder and thinks of Reivon’s body under hers, soft and warm, and the way she cradled Onya’s jaw in her fingers. “ _Then I will do as you ask_.”

“Thank you,” Leksa says, eyes closing. She looks tired.

 

Onya sits in the back of Klark’s lecture and copies the notes off the boy next to her. Onya doesn’t understand any of it, but she writes until her hand cramps. Someone asks a question and Onya spends the minute copying a diagram from the slides. The professor starts a video and Onya slouches, squinting in the dim light. She doodles, absent-minded, and enjoys the quiet darkness of the room.

Klark’s room smells very faintly of alcohol and Onya wrinkles her nose, sitting on the foot of her bed. Klark emerges in a cloud of steam and a towel and yelps to see her. Onya stands and drops the notebook onto the mattress. “Notes.”

She’s hardly through the doorway to her room when Klark storms in, eyes slitted. “Why,” she demands, and Onya snarls reflexively, answering her challenge. 

“What do you care?”

“Seriously? You hate me. I want to know why you would go out of your way, all the way to a class _you’re not even in_ and take the best notes I’ve ever seen in my life.”

Onya is not in any classes, and of course Klark doesn’t know that, because Klark doesn’t know _anything_ , and it might not be her fault, but it’s not Onya’s concern either, and she advances, backing Klark back out into the hall. “You know why,” she hisses, and slams the door in Klark’s face. 

 

Reivon barges in and Onya sighs heavily at the ceiling. “Is it so curious to do something nice for one of you that it requires dissection?”

Reivon crosses her arms. “What’s your problem with Clarke, Onya?”

Onya rolls off her bunk and lands in a catfoot crouch, standing quickly. “I have no problem with Klark.”

Reivon snorts, lifting her chin. “Bullshit. She’s one of my best friends, and I know things are weird between her and Lexa now, but you never liked her. Why?”

Onya frowns. “There is--it is not her.”

“You worry,” Reivon guesses. 

“Yes.”

“But you could maybe cut Clarke some slack.”

Onya steps closer. “She threw up in my car.”

“She cleaned it up.” Reivon tips her head up, face set, and Onya touches her hip, careful. 

“Clarke is in no danger from me.” Onya hesitates. “I wish to apologize to you. For the way you were treated. The way I treated you.” She curls her fingers and Reivon sways towards her. “You deserve better.”

“We both do,” Reivon says, and goes up on her toes. They kiss, closed mouth and slow, and when they part, Onya licks her lips. 

“It will not happen again.”

Reivon swallows. “Good.” She steps back, sudden, and Onya lets her hand drop. 

//

Leksa knocked Onya to the ground during a spar, harder than usual, teeth clenched. Onya sprawled out in the mud and blinked up at her. Then she nodded, standing and sheathing her practice weapon. “She told you.”

Leksa twirled her own sword three times, fluid, then tossed it into the training bin. “ _Sha_. Did you think she would not?”

Onya shrugged. “I don’t care. It’s not as if I meant to keep it a secret.” She tossed a towel at Leksa, hitting her in the face. 

Leksa scowled, yanking it away and balling it up. “She is important to me.”

Onya scoffed. “You are too small yet for important things, _youngon_.”

She moved to walk away and Leksa stepped into her path. “Onya.” Leksa looked down, then back, determined. Her cheeks were very faintly pink, her eyes soft. “She is--fond, in my heart.”

Onya searched her face. She looked up towards the _fisa_ wing and frowned. Leksa offered her arm, palm up, and said again, almost pleading, “Onya.”

“Then she is important to me,” Onya said finally, and took Lexa’s arm in her own, forearms clasped.

//

Onya takes Leksa to the backyard and they tire themselves out sparring, the training sticks clacking against each other. When it’s over, Onya has new bruises forming across her back and ribs; Leksa’s wrist is slightly swollen. She rests against a tree while Leksa opens a bottle of water. Leksa’s frown has not lessened and Onya whistles at her, low and curious. Leksa sighs. “ _I have no right to be upset._ ”

Onya snorts. Leksa cuts her a look, hard.

“I was the one to keep it from becoming a relationship. _Why shouldn't Klark seek out another_?”

“ _Sha_ ,” Onya says. “ _But that doesn’t mean you can’t be upset_.”

Leksa grunts. “ _Did you talk to her_?”

“ _She extends her apologies, but I assured her there was no conflict_.” Onya tilts her head, thoughtful. “ _I suppose we don’t have to worry about Heda being stuck_ \--” she switches, the translation not quite right in _trigedasleng_ “--in the closet.”

Leksa rolls her eyes. “ _I never intended to keep it a secret_.”

Onya grins. “ _But Leksa, think of Titus_.”

Leksa’s face creases in a reluctant smile. She offers Onya a hand up. “I think I will go for a run.”

Onya nods. She watches Leksa go and stretches, stripping off her sweat soaked shirt. “Damn,” Reivon says, coming out the back door. “You guys go hard, huh?”

“Of course.” Onya turns, using her shirt to wipe her hairline. “What purpose would there be, otherwise?”

Reivon picks up one of Leksa’s discarded sticks. “What’s this called?”

“ _Iskrima_.” Onya knocks it with her own, clacking. “Care to spar?”

Reivon squints at her. “Is this you being flirty?”

Onya shrugs. She backs up, casting one stick aside, and beckons Reivon closer. “Come and find out.”

Reivon laughs when she swings at her, clumsy and purposefully slow, and Onya twists under the strike to tap above Reivon’s heart, feather light. “Oh no,” Reivon says, deadpan, “I am slain.”

Onya grins. She takes the stick from Reivon’s hand and leans it against the house. “It is no shame, to be defeated by the best.”

“So now you’re the best.” Reivon lingers in the yard, head tilted, smile playing around her lips. 

“ _Sha_ ,” Onya agrees. She sips at a bottle of water and offers it to Reivon. Reivon takes it and their fingers brush. 

“When did you start training?”

Onya thinks. “Seven.”

“Seven years ago?”

“No.”

Reivon gapes. “Seven as in seven years old? Jeez. Did your parents sign you up?”

Onya sits on the steps of the tiny deck. “I went to the capital to train.” She puffs up very slightly, proud. “I was the only one in my village chosen to be part of the Guard.”

Reivon sits beside her and fumbles with the straps of her brace, tugging her leg free. “Did you miss them?”

“No.” Onya exhales, quiet. “I didn’t. I probably should have.” She presses two fingers to her sternum. “I am not a soft person,” she reminds. 

“Maybe.” Reivon leans their shoulders together and when Onya turns her head Reivon kisses her, easy. Their tongues touch and Onya shivers. She pulls back just a fraction and feels Reivon’s breath on her lips. “Maybe not.” She smiles, and leans her head on Onya’s shoulder. “I won’t tell if you won’t.”

Onya looks at her. She raises an arm, slow, and rests it around Reivon’s shoulders. 

//

Onya and Leksa were at a meeting, and Kostia wasn’t feeling well. She’d shooed them ahead with a shrug and a weak cough, and Leksa had made her thick honey tea while Onya instructed Tris to stay and look after her. “ _It’s a school night anyway_ ,” Onya had said, clasping Tris’ shoulder. “ _You have your test tomorrow_.” Tris had wrinkled her nose and sighed, but smiled, waving after them as Leksa pressed a last kiss to Kostia’s temple and said they’d see them again soon.

Onya and Leksa were at a meeting, and it went well. They left grinning, buoyed by a night in their own language with their own people, dreaming of a better future so close Onya can taste it again. Leksa cranked the window down and the radio up, and stuck her head out the window to feel the wind on her face. 

Onya and Leska come back from their meeting and the door is cracked open. Onya pushes Leksa to the side and they draw their knives, hearts thundering. The jamb is splintered and there’s glass on the floor, mixed with the dirt of the plants Kostia sang to in the mornings while the coffee bubbled. Tris is lying facedown on the floor in front of the bedroom door, and the entire apartment is screamingly silent. Onya falls into a crouch and turns Tris into her lap, blank sightless eyes and bloodsmeared front. Leksa moves past her into the bedroom, and Onya should know better than to let Leksa go in first, but she’s frozen on her knees, her hand against Tris’s still chest. 

In the bedroom, Leska howls.

//

Onya steps into the garage. It’s late, and the moon slants through the small windows. There’s a small lamp burning bright and focused, Reivon bent close to the table over a large mounted magnifying glass. She looks up. “Hey.”

“Hey,” Onya echoes. She crosses to the table and leans a hip against it. “It is late.”

“Yes.” Reivon stands, fussing with tools and bits of wire.

“May I keep you company?”

Reivon shrugs. “Suit yourself. Can’t sleep?”

“Yes.” Onya walks around the shelves, reaching out every so often to touch tools and bits of metal, cabinets with neat labels holding hundreds of screws and washers and drill bits. “And you?”

“I work better at night. It’s quieter.”

Onya makes a noise, agreeing, and settles into a crouch in the back corner, her back resting against the wall. “What are you building?”

“This and that and the other thing.” Reivon turns her head, shooting Onya a grin over her shoulder. She works in silence for a few moments, Onya listing down the wall, eyes fluttering shut. 

The next thing Onya knows her eyes are cracked open and Reivon’s face is very close. 

“Come on,” she whispers, and Onya rises with the gentle urging of Reivon’s arm. Reivon walks her down the hall and when Onya moves to turn into her room, the light burning under the door, Reivon shakes her head. “Come on,” she says again, and tucks Onya into Reivon’s bed, grunting as she yanks Onya’s boots off and shoves her under a blanket. Reivon mutters to herself, stripping of her own pants and jacket, and slides next to her, smushing them together into the twin mattress. “Go to sleep,” she mumbles, fingers fumbling at Onya’s face until they tap her cheek, gentle.

Onya is awake. She can hear Okteivia, shifting in her own bed a few feet away, and feel Reivon breathe against her. She rests a hand on Reivon’s belly, pulling her closer into Onya’s arms, and Reivon murmurs. Dry lips press against Onya’s jaw, sleep clumsy. “Go to sleep,” Reivon whispers again, and Onya’s eyes flutter shut. She doesn’t dream.

//

Onya keeps getting calls from Leksa’s school, absences she excuses, thickening her accent and pretending confusion, and schedules a day off to lurk just outside the apartment. She follows Leksa around the city, until Leksa darts into an alley. 

She turns in and ducks, instinctive. Leksa’s elbow thumps into the brick just above her head. “ _Too slow_ ,” she mocks, and Leksa snarls, grabbing her by the collar and throwing her against the wall. 

“ _Why are you following me?_ ”

Onya shoves Leksa’s hands away. “ _Why do you think? Have you lost your mind?_ ”

“ _This cannot stand,_ ” Leksa hisses. “ _I know he is here. I have been tracking him for days_.”

“ _Goufa_ ,” Onya curses her. “ _Nia believes you dead, or we would have seen more attacks already. We should do nothing. Lie low._ ”

The window above them squeaks and they flatten themselves against the wall, breaths held. Leksa leans out, peering up, then retreats. She nods at Onya--it’s him. She points to the side and Onya snarls, silent, to show her fury. They turn as one, scaling the fire escape, and land on either side of him simultaneously. Leka smashes him against the window pane and throws him off the fire escape. The metal clangs, loud, and he lands with a wet crunch. They peer down at him.

“Hm,” Onya says, approving despite herself.

//

Onya is with Lincoln when she gets the call. “ _Onya. I need you._ ”

Onya leaves Lincoln without a word of explanation. She almost runs a red light, and has to curl her fingers around the steering wheel to avoid blaring the horn. Leksa is waiting by the side of the road, the parking lot of a darkened building, leaning against the brick wall. Onya gets out of the car without turning it off. “ _Are you well?_ ”

“Yes.” Leksa bats her hands away. “Don’t fuss.”

“ _What happened_?” Onya grabs her under the jaw, turning her one way then the other. 

“ _I was sideswiped._ ” Leksa frowns. She points to the road. “ _Just there_.”

They walk to the spot, waiting for the traffic to dissipate. Onya squints at the road; Leksa turns her phone’s flashlight on. “Hm.” Onya says. Her frown grows. “ _No skid marks_.”

“ _That doesn’t mean anything._ ” Leksa taps her sleeve, gesturing up the road. “Car.”

They retreat back to the parking lot. “ _Where’s the bike_?”

“A ditch.” Leksa gestures. “Help me retrieve it.”

“ _Nou. I will drop you at the house and return._ ” Onya fires off a few texts. 

“Onya--”

Onya looks at her. She reaches out with two fingers and parts Leksa’s open jacket, exposing the shredded fabric of her shirt and a faint red stain seeping through. “ _Did your helmet fall off in the crash_?”

Leksa is silent for a moment. “ _You should drop me at the house and return for the motorcycle._ ”

 

By the time they reach the house, Leksa is wincing, and hiding it poorly. Onya stands at the steps, arms crossed, and waits while Leksa refuses to limp up the driveway. “ _I don’t want to hear it_ ,” Leksa says, and slings an arm around Onya’s shoulders without prompting.

Onya takes Leksa’s weight and fumbles her key into the lock. “ _I would never, Heda_ ”

She uses her boot to shove it open and drags Leksa inside, depositing her on the kitchen table. “ _Where is the prisa_?” 

“Bathroom,” Okteivia pipes up. Onya pulls up short, Leksa and her turning as one to blink. Okteivia shrugs. “I’m picking it up fast.” Leksa shoots Onya a look, quick, and Onya nods. 

“ _I’m going to retrieve the motorcycle_ ,” Onya says. She looks at Leksa, slumped over in a ripped leather jacket, and is struck by a fierce current of emotion. She touches Leksa’s knee with two fingers. “ _Reshop, youngon_.”

Leksa’s face creases in a smile--there’s a little dirt streaked above her eyebrow, and her braids are messy, hair falling out. It reminds Onya of when Leksa barely reached her shoulder, mud on her boots and more hair than muscle. “ _Reshop, ticha_.”

 

Onya sits in her car and texts, fingers tapping on the wheel while she waits for a response, watching the soft glow of the lights in the house through the window. Her phone buzzes and she picks it up; Linkon. “ _There has been an attempt_ ,” she says. 

There’s a pause. “ _When_?”

“ _Tomorrow. I--_ ”

The passenger door squeaks. Reivon slips in and Onya hangs up without another word. “I do not require your assistance.”

“Good for you. Does driving a car and a motorcycle simultaneously fall within your talents?” Reivon shuts the door and leans the chair back. “Clarke and Lexa were making out on the table.”

Onya curls her lip and starts the engine. Reivon smiles, brief, and cranks the window down a notch to feel the night air. “Thank you,” Onya admits, five minutes in. 

Reivon shrugs. “I don’t mind it. I like driving at night, and I don’t have a car.”

Onya tries to think of something to say. “It is night.” She sighs at herself.

Reivon’s lips quirk. “We don’t have to talk, Onya. Watch the road.”

Onya watches the road. The streetlights slide down her arms and she can see Reivon sink down out of the corner of her eye, looking out the window. The tension in her spine melts away and Onya relaxes. The radio’s off and she can hear the car hum, the tires crunching over the gravel. She lets one hand slide down to the bottom of the steering wheel. “I like driving at night too,” she says, quiet. Her other hand rests on the gearshift between the seats and Reivon touches her wrist, feather light.

//

His name was Orin. Onya stared at him, crumpled in the alleyway, begging for his life. “ _I already told Nia you were dead_ ,” he sobs, “ _please, I just wanted to be free, I thought they were you_.”

Onya snarls. “ _You betrayed your Heda and you killed two children_.”

“ _You thought wrong_ ,” Leksa murmurs. Her knife bites into his throat, a single line of blood running down to drip off the blade. Onya trembles, but Leksa--freezes. Her eyes are blank. 

“Leksa?”

“ _Nou_.” Leksa drops her arm. She steps away. “ _I will not rule as Nia does._ ” She grabs him by the collar and hauls him closer. “ _I will never see you again_.”

“No,” he babbles, promising, “no, _I swear it, Heda, never_.” He scrambles to his feet, stumbling as he flees, crying and limping on his broken ankle.

Onya gapes. “ _What are you thinking,_ ” she hisses. 

Leksa looks older than she ever has. “ _I will not destroy Kostia’s dreams for her country in her name. It is disrespectful. Jus drein jus daun, but only for those who truly deserve it._ ”

Onya lowers her head even as her fists clench. She looks at the tracks Orin’s shoes left in the mud and seethes. 

//

Onya slips into the garage. She pauses. Reivon looks up. “Yeah, I built you a nest.”

Onya walks to it, the little pile of blankets in the corner. “I can see that.” She crouches in the middle. There’s a mat underneath, something thin but cushy, and she settles into a crosslegged pose. She closes her eyes. She can hear Reivon working, muttering, the metallic clink of her tools, and the little sputter of music from the tiny radio, crackling with static. Crickets chirp, muted, and she feels herself relax, sliding down.

She wakes with old memories echoed in her head and her own hand over her mouth, heart pounding. Reivon crouches in front of her, out of range. 

“Okay?”

Onya takes a calming breath. “Yes. Thank you.”

Reivon starts to rise and stops. “I’m uh, kinda tired myself.”

Onya hesitates. “I--.” She slides back, making room, and pats the blanket, once. 

Reivon slides into the gentle circle of her arms, shrugging her jacket aside and toeing off her shoes. “Is this--what are we?”

“Human, I believe.”

Reivon snorts. “I liked you better before you joked.” She’s silent for a second. “Are you fucking other people?”

“No.” Onya brings Reivon a little closer. She kisses the back of Reivon’s neck. “I never had any intention to do so.”

Reivon is silent for so long Onya’s eyes start to flutter shut. “Good,” she murmurs, and Onya wakes with a jolt, Reivon’s rough fingers sliding under her waistband and her clever tongue in Onya’s mouth.

 

Onya wakes with Klark’s scream in her ears. She rolls out of the bunk, knife flicking to her fingers and one hand shoving Leksa flat against the ground. Leksa ducks under it, sprinting for the door, and Onya curses, slipping out the window and running silent around the house. There’s a figure sprinting down the sidewalk, and she lights out after him, breath wooshing. She runs him down, arms pumping, and clips his heel, sending him sprawling. 

She doesn’t let him recover, grabbing him by the collar and crashing him into a tree trunk, followed up by two hard hits to the kidneys with her right hand and a vicious knee to the crotch. He makes a high pitched gasping noise and falls prone, retching weakly.

//

Orrin was at a bus stop when Onya found him. She dragged him into the woods and rebroke his ankle before dropping him at the foot of a tree. “ _Leksa is a wise leader. She will be a great Heda. She will do many great things._ ”

He sobs, hands raised. Onya tries to remember the last time she felt the tickle of mercy.

“ _She dreams of a Trigeda evolved. Mercy and diplomats and treaties_.” Onya tilts her head. “ _I… don’t_.” She kneels and pins him down, drawing her knife. “ _For as long as my spirit resides in this body, I will do what she cannot._ ”

She kills him. In line with Leksa’s wishes, it is quick, and relatively painless.

//

Linkon, Onya, and Leksa stand, looking over their prisoner. “ _His name is Thorn. He says Nia has his son. He is willing to send back a report that he succeeded in killing you._ ”

Onya snorts. “ _For a second time? Even if he doesn’t lie, it’s too late. We must go_.” She directs her attention to Linkon. “ _How ready are we?_ ”

Linkon shrugs. “ _Not as good as it could be, not so bad it is a hopeless stand_.”

Leksa’s lips twist. “ _A ringing recommendation_.”

Onya takes a deep breath. The air tastes sweeter, suddenly. “ _It is time_.” She looks down at him, impassive. “ _Should I_?”

He closes his eyes, slow. “Please,” he says, in gonasleng. “When you go, will you look for my boy?”

Onya feels something move in her chest. She looks at Leksa, face like stone. “ _Can we risk it_?” Leksa asks, tired. Her knife is open in her hand.

Onya reaches out. “ _Do not make my mistakes_.” Leksa stares at her. Linkon averts his gaze, polite, but can’t hide the flinch of surprise. “ _Jus drein jus daun_ ,” Onya says, “ _but only for those who truly deserve it_.”

 

Onya slides through the garage window. “Reivon.”

Reivon doesn’t turn around. “So. I thought maybe, you know. Refugee trauma. But it’s all much more Anastacia than all that.”

“Anastacia died with her family, if I remember correctly.”

Reivon snaps. “Of course. You would know that. Nothing about Virginia Woolf, but old murders in the woods, you’re the girl to call.”

“If you have a question, ask it.”

Reivon whirls. “Have you ever killed someone?” Her voice falls away, abrupt. The silence rings.

“Yes,” Onya says. Her voice doesn’t shake.

“How many.” Onya pauses, head tilting. Reivon gapes. “You have to _count_?”

Onya shrugs. “Some were badly injured. It’s possible they died later. No way for me to know.”

Reivon wiggles a hand. “Give me a rounded estimate.”

“Perhaps twelve.”

Reivon blinks. She swallows. “Any you regret?”

“There is one I should.” Onya shifts on her feet. “I find I don’t quite know if I would undo if it I could.”

Reivon laughs, short and mirthless. “I suppose if anything, you’re not a liar.”

“I have come to ask a favor.”

Reivon sighs. “What.”

“I would like you to file a missing person’s report on Leksa and me. Just the truth. You woke up and we were gone.”

Reivon slams her tools into their trays. “You’re going to have to give me more than that.”

Onya frowns at the floor. “You were not… off your mark. With your refugee theory.”

Reivon stares. “That’s it? That’s all I get? I’m not ‘off my mark’? I don’t even think that’s how the saying goes.”

“It is not my story,” Onya says, stiff. Reivon’s face creases, frustrated and hurt. Pain lances through Onya’s chest. “It is my duty,” she says, and she doesn’t know how to explain how much that means to her. Reivon looks at her and softens. 

“Okay. Missing person’s report. My housemate Leksa had a bad fall off her motorcycle, got spooked by a peeping tom, and took off. I’m just filing it because I need to have her declared missing to rent the room out.” She sighs. “Octavia’s brother is a cop, I’ll ask him to help me out.”

“Thank you.”

“I’m mad at you. I don’t think I want to see you again.”

“Do you truly mean that?”

“No.” Reivon sighs again. “I’ll be over it in a few days. Will that matter?”

“No. I am leaving.” Onya steps closer, cautious.

“When?”

“Soon.” Onya reaches out, then drops her arm. “You will not look at me?”

“I don’t--no. I don’t know.” Reivon stares determinedly at the twist of metal and electronics on her worktable.

Onya steps away. “Farewell, Reivon.”

“Wait,” Reivon calls, still frozen over her latest project. Onya stops with her hand on the doorknob. “What do I tell the police about you?”

“The truth,” Onya suggests, slipping through the door and letting it click heavy and final behind her. “You never knew me at all.”

//

“ _I know what you did_ ,” Leksa said, quiet, housing paperwork in one hand. “ _I--I’ve known for a long time_.”

Onya stilled. “ _And what do you have to say about it_?”

“ _I don’t know._ ” Leksa looks to the side. “ _Do you remember that project Tris did? The year before…_ ”

“ _I remember._ ”

“ _It was on the death penalty. Did you read it? Because I did._ ”

Onya clenched her jaw. “ _Say what you mean, youngon_.”

“ _I have said all I mean to say_.” Leksa handed her a folded paper. Onya opened it. It’s a lease, filled out in their names. 

“ _And what is this?_.”

“A fresh start.” Leksa touched her shoulder. “ _Our country will be born again, and so can we. Remember what they taught us. Balance._ ”

“ _My scales are tipped_ ,” Onya told her, cold. “ _The blood is too heavy_.”

“I don’t believe that’s true.” Leksa smiled at her, a little sad, a little soft. “I have never stopped seeing the goodness in your heart.”

//

“I would give many things,” Leksa says, idly, packing her bag. The saferoom is cold and damp and makes Onya’s lungs hurt. “Many things,” Leksa continues, “to say a proper goodbye to Clarke.”

Onya sneers. “ _You can press your lips to notes of your love and sprinkle them with perfume between United Nations hearings_.” Leksa looks like she’s considering the possibility and Onya rolls her eyes. “ _I will say goodbye. If only to stop you from your harping._ ”

Leksa smiles. “ _I--it has been good, Onya, to see you happy. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you make a friend before._ ”

“ _Friend_ ,” Onya repeats. She imagines Reivon’s face upon hearing such a statement and has to turn to hide a smile, bittersweet.

 

Onya steps into the garage. Reivon looks up. A machine glows on the table, whirring away. Reivon takes off her goggles and drops them aside, crossing her arms. “Shouldn’t you be fleeing from Interpol?”

Onya crosses the room. “Do I get points for risking capture to see you?”

Reivon turns to hide a smile and Onya tugs her back around, gentle. “I’m still mad at you.” Reivon won’t look at her, and Onya drops her hands, stepping back. 

“How mad are you?” Reivon catches her fingers, holding them close.

“Not as mad as I should be.” She looks at Onya through her lashes and Onya leans forward, slow. She bumps her nose against Reivon’s and slants their lips together. Reivon pulls away after just a few seconds. She leans their foreheads together. “Why did you come back?”

“For many things.” Onya hesitates. “For you.” She removes a small box from a coat pocket. “I would ask you another favor.” She opens the box.

Reivon gapes at her. She sputters for a few seconds before she can talk. “You need an artist.”

Onya lifts a free hand over the humming machine on the table, something old and dead made new and beautiful with Reivon’s hands, her loving care. “I have picked one.”

Reivon makes an exasperated noise. “This--come on, Onya, this is crazy. This is… forever! It’s permanent.”

“That’s the idea.” Reivon cuts a look at her and Onya sighs. She sets the box on the table, carefully shutting the lid on the tattoo gun and small vials of ink. She rolls up one pant leg, then the other. “They are remembrances.” She places a fingertip against the inside of her elbow and draws it up to her wrist. “I want to remember you.”

Reivon stares at her. “You’re not coming back.”

“It is not likely.”

Reivon lifts the tattoo gun, gingerly careful. “I--okay. Give me a few minutes.”

Onya half staggers to the bed of blankets, still piled neatly in the corner. “I need to be gone by the morning.” Reivon makes a noise, agreeing, but Onya is already asleep.

 

She wakes when Reivon touches her shoulder. “Hey.”

Onya blinks, owlish. She sits up, stretching, and Reivon is watching her with a soft look. She offers a hand and Onya takes it, standing with a faint wince. “You are ready?”

“I am. I was thinking love on one fist, hate on the other.” Onya cuts her a look and Reivon smiles. “You don’t like it?”

Onya sits on the stool and rests her arm on the table, going pliant while Reivon positions it. She uncaps a fine tip sharpie and positions the lamp. “I,” Onya says. She stops, frowns. The pen tickles where it drags over her skin in short sure motions. “I believe I will miss you.”

Reivon snorts, her breath huffing warm on Onya’s wrist. “I should hope you don’t get tattoos done by all the girls you won’t miss.” She leans back and blows a cool stream of air over her work. “What do you think?”

Onya turns her arm, slow, looking from every angle. There’s a flock of tiny black birds, more delicately drawn than she would have thought, from her elbow across her wrist, flying away in a swooping curve. The last is inked below the first knuckle of her thumb, wings fully spread. “Reivons,” she says.

Reivon smirks. “No one has ever accused me of being subtle.”

“I like it,” Onya says. Reivon looks at her, perhaps expecting more, and Onya looks back. Reivon runs a little plastic razor over her arm, whisper gentle, and cleans it with antibacterial soap and warm water from a small dish. 

The gun buzzes in her hand, and she uses the thumb of her blue latex glove to swipe over the ink as she goes. Onya watches, quiet. “Does it hurt? I mean, if you were a normal person with normal nerves and a normal pain tolerance, would it hurt?”

“Not here, so much. Something over the bone would feel the worst, but this is--like a pen, dragging. I find it to be soothing.” Onya smiles when Reivon sits back. “I like it.”

Reivon smiles, pleased. The gloves snap while she changes them, and the ointment is cool smeared on her skin. “Can’t believe I’ve given two tattoos. No bone needles this time?”

“Last time my way, this time yours.” Onya slides off the stool. It brings her into the ‘v’ of Reivon’s legs, close, thighs touching. 

Reivon touches her face. “How long do you have?”

“One hour.” Onya pauses. “I will miss you, Reivon.”

Reivon kisses her, closed mouth. “Just one?”

“Two,” Onya says, shaky. “For you, two.”

 

Reivon is in her lap, hips moving slowly, and she shivers when Onya lifts her, turning to lay her down and settle her weight on top of her. They move together, long, slow rolling waves, Onya’s arm pillowed under Reivon’s head, the other braced above her shoulder. The various lights blink, the lamp casting odd blue and red shadows across their bodies, Onya’s fresh tattoo shining. Reivon comes first, arched up, her fingernails sharp on Onya’s back. Onya drops her head to Reivon’s shoulder, shaking, grinding. “ _Hodness_ ,” she murmurs against Reivon’s throat, body shuddering. They lie pressed together, limp and sweaty. Onya slides down, presses a kiss to her arm. 

Reivon fumbles to the side, grunting with effort. Her phone light comes on, blinding, and Onya grumbles. “I want to see you,” Reivon says. Onya hears the camera click, and smiles, rolling over Reivon to her feet. 

Reivon sits up, protesting. “Hey, we still have time.”

“I know.” Onya extends a hand. “Lie down with me?”

 

They stretch out on the grass, naked bodies shivering on top of the thin blanket, the grass tickly underneath. Onya finds the North Star, Raven’s leg draped over her waist, and points, closing one eye, their temples touching. “There. I can that see from Trigeda. In the winter.”

Reivon raises her arm alongside Onya’s, blotting out the tiny dot with her fingertip. “And what about the rest of the time?”

Onya shrugs. “Isn’t one season romantic enough?”

Reivon elbows her. “The moon.”

Onya nods. “Yes. You tell the moon what you have created, and the next day I’ll nod and look impressed when I see her in the sky.” She kisses Reivon’s hairline. “We will only be parted for one night a month.”

“Gay.” 

Onya laughs. Reivon straddles her and they kiss, quiet and shivering in the wind, long and slow and somehow both lazy and desperate, until Reivon’s watch beeps. “It’s time,” Onya murmurs. They untangle, and Onya walks barefoot into the garage to dress. Reivon is still sitting in the yard when she emerges, but she stands when Onya approaches. 

“Well.” Reivon’s mouth works. She pats Onya’s shoulder. “Try not to die?”

Onya smiles. She takes Raven’s hand. “There is something we do, in my land. Something we say.”

Reivon raises Onya’s hand to her lips, then higher. She kisses each of her namesakes, then the tip of Onya’s pointer finger. “I’m going to miss you, Onya.”

“May we meet again,” Onya says. Reivon’s hand falls away from hers with a drag of calluses and a whisper.

//

Onya’s hand ached, in every bone, and itched under the bloodstained bandages Kostia had tied tight around her wrist. The plane roared under them, relentless, the pressure thumping in Onya’s temples. She slipped under Tris’ limp sleeping arm and pressed her face against the cold curving wall of the plane. She can’t see her home falling away, and even if she could, her village no longer stands. She feels the littlest whiff of wind on her face and breathes deep, for the last time.

//

By the time they make it to the building, the revolt is all but over. Their own people lean against doors, tired and exhausted, or are bent over tending to the dead and wounded. Soldiers with the Azgeda markings on their faces glower from within bindings, closely guarded. They look at Leksa like a god descended to walk among them, and part like water before her. One approaches, head bowed, and Onya blinks. She recognizes him. She knew him, before. 

“Onya,” he greets. She nods. “You look well. And you…” He reaches out, arm between himself and Leska. “Heda.”

“I remember you,” Leksa says, slow, and then again, breathy. “I remember you. I remember this.”

“Heda,” he says again, and leads them to the big double wide doors. “We believe she has four people with her. She was attempting a broadcast, but we cut the power.”

Leksa nods, striding, eyes sharp. “Who was she attempting to contact?”

“Not sure, but it’s an international link.”

Leksa pauses in front of the doors. “Turn it back on.”

 

Onya goes in first. Leksa hesitated before the order, but Onya has the most combat experience of the small squad and has always been known for her ability to compartmentalize pain and take damage. She and Leksa met each other’s eyes, silent, and then Onya threw the doors open. 

The camera light is blinking and the battle is brief. There are ten soldiers with Nia, six with Leksa, including Onya. Onya zeroes in on the only two with guns, cutting one down easily. The other fires as she lunges, and she feels it, burnt through her chest. She ignores it, and he’s lying dead at her feet before she blinks again.

It’s worth every second of pain she’s ever felt, every moment of feeling herself die second by second on _skaikru_ soil, every night of sleep she’s lost, worth _everything_ to see Leksa sit on her throne, fingers flexing on the arms. She declares herself Heda and Onya kneels. Leksa keeps speaking, and Onya feels herself slide to the floor. Leksa looks at her, and her fingers flick. Onya feels hands at her sides, turning her, and she twists her head so it’s the last thing she sees before darkness swallows her vision, Leksa standing tall, blood across her warpaint, power in her eyes.

//

Onya didn’t see her parents or brothers die. She has imagined it a thousand times. She thinks her eldest brother would have tried to run, with his newest baby, born just two months before and named _Onya_ in her honor. She thinks her mother would have wrenched the axe off the wall. She knows they all went down fighting, and that they all died alone in the mud. Nia’s soldiers razed the village to the ground and brought back fistfuls of ash to smear over the boiled white bone of the Heda’s throne, staining it black with Nia’s new reign.

She’d ground Onya’s face into the gritty ashes and demanded to know where Leksa was and Onya swore to herself, over and over, that her spirit will never move on until she sees Nia dead at her feet.

//

Onya dreams of her childhood. Walking through her village, the buildings dimmed and distorted by fading memory. She dreams of the feel of the grass on her legs and the sound of the river. She dreams of being born, spilling naked into its coursing current. She dreams of--Reivon. The dark gentle curl to her hair, the feel of it between Onya’s fingers. The quiet way she kisses, careful and passionate, what her smile feels like pressed into Onya’s neck. Her naked body in the moonlight and the click drag of her steps.

 

“Onya. _Ai gonplei nou ste odon_.”

Onya opens her eyes. “ _Ai em hir_.” Her voice croaks, weak.

Leksa touches a fingertip to the space between Onya’s eyes, where her spirit has stayed. “ _Ai kno_.”

 

Onya limps out of the infirmary a month later, bandages still swathed up her side, her breath still short. The first thing she does is find Leksa, in the training rooms, and bend her knee. Leksa sighs at her. “You will pull your stitches, _goufa_. Get up.”

“Heda,” Onya says, and then yelps. Leksa has rested her foot on Onya’s shoulder, tipping her over onto the training mats. Lexa stands over her.

“Onya. You are my closest friend. You are my family. If you leave this world before me, I would miss your spirit in my life.”

Onya picks up a training axe. She swings it at Leksa’s face.

 

She leans heavily against the wall, one arm thrown over Leksa’s shoulder. “If I can promise anything,” she pants, “it is that I will leave this world before you.”

Leksa grunts, dragging her into the hall and towards the baths. “Then I will miss you.”

 

“You are well recovered?”

Onya raises an eyebrow, a _fisa_ winding fresh bandages around her torso, Leksa leaning in the corner. “Do you already wish for a rematch?”

Leksa holds up a calming hand. “Onya, _beja_. I do not have time for your jokes.” They grin at each other. “I have a mission for you.”

Onya grasps the ends of the gauze. “Leave,” she orders the _fisa_ , and he scuttles away. She ties it secure herself. “Consider it done.”

“Go back.” Leksa hands her three heavy envelopes. “Titus believes it will soften my image to be seen maintaining friendships in America.”

Onya balks. “My injury,” she tries. Leksa rolls her eyes.

“Bring Linkon back with you.”

//

“There is a saying,” Leksa says, as the small plane lands, bumping roughly against the overgrown runway. Onya grimaces, her stomach rolling, and Leksa swallows. “You can’t go home again.”

“Home doesn’t change,” Onya says, breathing a little easier now the plane is slowing to a stop. “People do.”

“Perhaps we should manage our expectations.”

 

They step out and Onya takes a full deep breath. It’s a little humid, and she can hear the forest singing. She exhales. They step from the plane to the ground and a branch cracks under Onya’s foot, the earth firm under her weight. “How does it hold up to your expectations?”

“I was wrong,” Leksa says. Her eyes are wide, and she reaches out until the sun falls across her palm. She looks at Onya. “We are home.”

//

Klark opens the door in an oversized collared shirt and men’s underwear, sunglasses hanging off one ear and cereal falling out of her mouth. Onya stares at her. “You look terrible.”

“So do you.”

“I am well,” Onya says. “The Trikru rise.”

“And--and Lexa?” Klark is painfully transparent. 

Onya rolls her eyes. “Entirely too concerned with bits of paper.”

Klark pulls the door a little more open. “Come in?” Onya walks inside and Klark pours her a cup of coffee. “Did she send you?”

“Yes.” Onya takes a careful, measured sip. Klark shifts, eyes darting.

“And she did so because…”

Onya sighs. She lays down the invitation on the countertop, a thick piece of cardstock, fancy lettering. “Leksa Kom Trikru invites you to Ascension Day.” She lays down two more envelopes. “For Octavia and--” her tongue twists “--Raven.”

Klark touches her name. She pushes the envelopes back across the counter. “You can track them down yourself.”

Onya scowls. The least Klark could do was give an answer. “I’ll pick you up tomorrow,” she snaps, snatching the invitations up. “Be ready.”

 

Onya walks along the beach. “I’m glad you’re here. I would have looked very foolish to drive all the way to the beach to be alone.”

Reivon stares. “And,” she says, faltering, “it wouldn’t be as dramatic.”

“Yes.” Onya stops, an arm’s length away. “Or romantic. You know how I strive to be romantic.”

“You’re so bad at flirting,” Revon blurts, and falls into her arms. Onya holds her close, breathing in the smell of her hair. Reivon’s arms tighten and Onya winces. 

“I missed you,” she says, soft.

Reivon leans back and touches her shirt, feeling the bandages underneath. “You’re hurt.” Her fingers slide over Onya’s newest scar, through her eyebrow, and then down her jaw. Onya nips at them. 

“I was shot.”

Reivon shoves back, and Onya half stumbles, surprised. “ _What_?”

“I was shot.” Onya tugs down the collar of her shirt. “Just here.”

“You idiot.” Reivon socks her shoulder, then rubs at the spot. “Didn’t I tell you to be careful?”

“No. You told me not to die.” Onya smirks. “I didn’t.”

Reivon rolls her eyes. “Idiot.” They kiss, easy, and Onya finds she missed the feel of Reivon’s lips on hers.

 

They sit on the beach, Onya leaned back on her hands and Reivon’s legs across her lap. “I came to invite you to Leska’s Ascension.”

“It’s that language that makes the conservative pundits nervous.” Reivon flicks her ribs until Onya turns for a kiss, smiling. “Latest is that you’re part of a cult.”

“Mm.” The breeze throws Onya’s hair in her face and she tilts into the sun. “Is that a yes to my invitation?”

“Well, it’s really more Lexa’s invitation.”

Onya rolls herself atop Reivon’s torso, pinning her against the sand. “Will you come to see my home, Reivon?”

“Fine,” Reivon says, her smile bright and wide, “if you’re gonna _cry_ about it, I guess--” Onya interrupts her, licking into her mouth and dragging her teeth down Reivon’s neck.

 

They sleep on the beach, the ocean thrumming against the waves and Reivon’s breath rolling across her neck. Onya wakes her very, very early.

“Why,” Reivon asks, blinking and sleep muddled, shuffling along while Onya bundles her into the towncar, Linkon behind the wheel. They pick up Okteivia and Klark flops across the seat, glaring. Onya sips Linkon’s coffee and dozes.

 

The plane hums under her and Klark mutters behind her, kicking her chair. Onya rolls her eyes and undoes her seatbelt, meaning to stretch her legs up and down the aisle. She feels someone walk behind her, and steps into the small area at the back of the plane, near a drink cart. “Hey,” Reivon says. Onya moves towards her and Reivon steps back. She looks down the aisle at the rest of her friends, and shifts on her feet. 

“I understand,” Onya says. She moves to pour a cup of water and uses the pretense to nudge Reivon’s hand with her pinky. “It’ll be another two hours before we land.”

“You know this is my first time on a plane.”

Reivon’s eyes are dark, and teasing, and Onya lets her take the water cup from her hand, placing it aside, and follows her into one of the cramped bathroom stalls. “It doesn’t smell good in here,” she points out.

“You smell good.” Reivon kisses her, Onya’s back thumping against the door. “How do you say ‘Mile High Club’ in trigedasleng?”

“I don’t think it translates.” Onya hesitates. “I--are you sure?”

Reivon’s fingers trail through Onya’s hair, tucking it behind her ears. “I know this can’t go anywhere. And after your cult induction thing--”

“Important cultural ceremonial celebration.”

“That’s what I said. After that, I’ll go back to start graduate school and you’ll---terrify small children, I guess.” She hesitates, and Onya’s not sure what her expression means. “But not yet.”

“Not yet,” Onya agrees. She turns, bumping against the walls, and lifts Reivon, her legs around Onya’s waist.

 

The flight attendant is tapping her foot outside when they come out, but she just rolls her eyes and points to the newly lit _fasten your seatbelt_ sign. Onya nods and Reivon looks abashed and they fight giggles as they walk back to their seats. Reivon is sitting behind her, in the window seat, and Onya slides open the window shade, watching Trigeda come closer and closer. She looks back and Reivon is watching, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sdkjfh this is taking me forever to write and I apologize. let me know what you think, and I'm on tumblr @ sunspill


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Raven visits Trigeda.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really sorry it's taken so long for me to post. There's only one chapter left and I hope not to take so long--my job abruptly tripled, and I started taking classes. I also got a little discouraged lately, so I want to thank everyone who takes the time to comment here or let me know some other way that they're enjoying this story. I am enjoying writing it, even if it has become quite the challenge.
> 
> Also huge thanks to my smurf, who gives inspiration, support, creates scenes, beta-es, cheerleads, etc. <3 <3 <3

When they had been sure of their control of the capitol building, Onya walked with Leksa through its halls. Paused in front of the heavy doors to the Commander’s quarters. “ _You are Heda now,_ ” Onya reminded her, and Leksa nodded. She swallowed, once, and pushed the door open. 

“ _I remember this_ ,” she whispers. Her fingers touch a tattered tapestry and her mouth twists. “We must clean Nia from this place.”

Onya leaves her to it. She has had a memory swimming in her mind, muddled and faded. The first time she fell in love with her duty, Indra teaching her how to pick rocks from horses’ hooves and brush their shining coats. Shoveling manure until she ached and sweated. Packing clean dry hay and kissing their soft noses. 

The horses whicker when she enters the stables and it’s foolish, she knows, but still she looks for a familiar mount. The ones she knew must long be dead or gone, and she touches the placards on the doors. 

A harsh snorting draws her attention to the last stall. The horse is big. Black with white splotches and wild, snorting and stomping and snapping his teeth. He looks like he hasn’t been groomed in ages and he shifts, angry and restless and cooped up. Onya touches the door to his stall and knows how he feels. 

She stands back and kicks it open and he breaks free with a roar. He blows out of the stables and thunders out into the pasture. Onya races behind him and hears the shouts of people as they hop over the fence, clearing the paddock.

He runs in circles for almost ten minutes, wild and untamed, and Onya admires his spirit, his strength. She detours to grab a few apples from a nearby barrel and sits on the fence near the water trough until he’s run himself out. He eyeballs her from the other side of the paddock and she whistles, low, to draw his attention to the water.

One step and he’s panting, nostrils flared. Onya looks pointedly into the distance and tosses an apple up and down in her hands, overtly casual. Hears his hoof drag on the grass. He pants and tosses his head, but comes closer step by step. “You are a pretty one,” Onya says, keeping her voice easy and mild. He snaps his teeth at her, once, and bends to drink. “I like my friends with some bite,” Onya continues. She crunches into the apple and pries a chunk loose with her fingers, sweet juice dripping down her wrist. 

She touches his neck, then up his nose when he snorts and tosses his head. He calms under her touch, firm and reassuring and easy, his muscles trembling and twitching and finally going lax. He eats the apple from her palm. She kisses his nose and huffs gently across his nostrils, greeting when he nuzzles her face. “ _Ai laik Onya_.”

//

The first thing Onya ever killed was a rabbit. Caught it in a snare and slit its throat the way Indra tells her and felt life run wet over her fingers in rich dark blood. Did a ragged job of cleaning it and ate the meat straight from their makeshift spit, hot against her fingers and lips. Slept curled up and satisfied and woke early to track a doe through the woods.

The first person Onya ever killed happened before she could string the intent together in her mind. He came at her and she turned and twisted and plunged her sword through his lungs, textbook muscle memory. She remembers dragging her sword free was harder than she’d thought it would be, and that his blood was still warm when it flecked across her face.

//

The party is boring and Onya itches for a fight. She has played nice for all of Leksa’s cameras and she wishes to leave. She spies Reivon and Klark, huddled together, and beelines through the large ballroom. She swipes the flute from Reivon’s fingers, ignoring her yelp, and drains it, dry bubbles on her tongue. “I will escort you to your quarters.”

Reivon blinks. “How’d you know we wanted to leave?”

“I don’t care what you want.”

“Don’t argue,” Klark says. “If she’s our ticket out she can have all the champagne--” her face lights up. “Raven has a bottle of whiskey in her suitcase.”

Onya’s eyes sharpen. “Follow me.”

 

Their room has a gorgeous view, huge windows from floor to ceiling, and Onya stands in front of it with Klark while Reivon fishes the bottle out of her suitcase. “Your country is beautiful,” Klark says, almost hesitant.

“A home is always beautiful.”

Klark’s expression twists, complicated and layered. “Lexa’s home.”

“Yes.” Onya hesitates. She touches Klark’s elbow, barely there pressure. “Come. Tonight is a party.”

//

There is a new gona. First year, at least ten away from taking a _seken_ of her own. She fumbles during training sessions and is consistently near the bottom of the standings at official reviews. Onya watches her fight and hears the others murmur amongst themselves. There are ten women in the Heda Guard, including Onya and Indra. “She is making it worse for us,” Daksa murmurs at Onya’s side. Onya throws her a look, scornful, and strides forward. She vaults neatly over the low fence and arrives at the _goufa_ ’s side, shoulder’s slumped and head bowed near a training dummy, sword limp in defeated fingers.

“Lift your chin,” Onya snaps, and the girl snaps straight, shoulders squared. Her eyes widen when she sees who’s addressing her. “What is your name?”

“Bekka.” Onya can’t hide the twitch of surprise and the girl flushes. “I know. A disgrace to her name.”

“How did you pass your Trials with that footwork?”

“I was--I am-- cleric focused,” Bekka mumbles. “They make allowances, but I still have to stand for the reviews and rank.”

“Lift your weapon.” Bekka complies, clumsy and almost hesitant, and Onya catches her blade easily between her palms. She lifts, raising Bekka’s hand. Her fingers are raw looking, bleeding sluggishly from friction burns and tiny cuts. “Your wrapping is poor.” She lets the sword drop to the dirt, then extends her hand, palm up. Bekka’s eyes widen.

When she lays her sword hilt first along Onya’s lifeline, angled, the people milling about murmur, loud enough to be heard. Onya rips the tape and cloth from the hilt and redoes the wrapping, strong and tight and layered for grip and give. She hands it back. “It’s better,” Bekka says, surprised. She hefts it, gentle and controlled, and strikes at the dummy. 

“Footwork,” Onya snaps, and Bekka jerks to comply. 

//

Some time later, and Reivon has lost her pants. Onya pours her another shot, amused, and is dimly aware of Klark leaving for the balcony, the door closing behind her. “Robot,” Reivon accuses.

“Not so,” Onya replies, her enunciation very slightly off. She can feel her pulse in the roof of her mouth, tingly and sharp and her thoughts rolling soft and faded through her mind. Reivon downs the shot and shuffles forward, up on her knees on the bed to lean over Onya, her hand braced on Onya’s shoulder. “What are you doing,” Onya murmurs, but Reivon’s lips are soft and she tastes like whiskey and herself and Onya opens her mouth to feel the warm trickle burn of the drink, sliding from Reivon’s tongue onto hers. She swallows, and tips up to kiss Reivon again, lick the whiskey from the inside of her cheeks.

“ _Onya_ ,” Reivon says, quiet and perfect, and Onya lays flat on the bed on her back to feel Reivon’s weight settle on top of her, slim and slight and when their naked skin presses against each other it, feels like that first step off the airplane, the doors to the capital creaking open. Like coming home.

//

“I hear you picked up a stray,” Indra says at mealtime. Onya grunts. “Leksa not enough of a challenge for you?”

Currently, Leksa is supposed to be mucking out a stable. Onya is pretty sure she saw her sneaking off towards the healer’s wing. “If only,” she mutters to Indra. “The _goufa_ was going to stab herself if I let her carry on like that anyway.”

“Yes,” Indra says, altogether too amused. Bekka emerges from the mess line and lights up when she sights Onya in the crowd of tables, heading their way quickly. “I have always known you for your acts of random kindness.”

“Don’t you have a new _seken_ to dole this wisdom out to?”

“Not yet,” Indra says cheerfully. She clasps Onya’s shoulder before she leaves. 

“Onya,” Bekka greets, sitting with a clatter. Onya sighs.

“Have you ever had a moment of grace in your life?”

“Not really.” Bekka rips a bite of bread into her mouth and grins, puffy cheeked. “Did you know this building was constructed during the Unity Wars? Secret passages all over.”

Onya stands, spying Leksa’s figure entering the hall. “I have a _seken_ already, Bekka.”

“Of course.” Bekka deflates, bent over her bowl. Her hair falls out of the band she’s using to keep it back, tickling her cheek and jaw. Onya sighs again. 

“Tomorrow, Leksa has lessons in the morning. Meet me in the training yard.”

Bekka beams. “ _Sha. Mochof_ , Onya.”

Onya tugs at her little tuft of a ponytail. “And get a haircut. Even a cleric wears a sword in Trigeda.”

 

//

Onya wakes when she hears the door open. She recognizes the cadence of Klark’s breathing and rolls her eyes, hidden by the heavy blanket over her head. Reivon had tugged her under it for a messy sleep sour kiss before slipping away for a shower, and Onya enjoys the laxness in her muscles, the contentment lying curled in her chest like a sleeping cat. She feels safe here. She can hear Reivon humming over the noise of the water through the pipes and Klark’s feet padding on the floor. There’s a knife under her pillow but she doesn’t feel the need to check its placement with her palm against the hilt. 

The mattress dips with Klark’s weight and the blanket is yanked down. Onya blinks--she apparently had misjudged thinking herself completely safe because while she’s frozen, processing, Klark has pressed a kiss to her cheek, sloppy and horrifyingly _wet_. Onya has never before experienced paralysis like this. Klark’s leg is over her waist.

Klark recoils, almost as horrified as Onya feels. “ _Oh my god_.”

Onya feels a little better at the pucker of Klark’s face. She sits up, stretching, letting the blanket fall. The sun slants through the windows and is warm on her naked skin and she enjoys the faint twinge of well used muscles, the satisfying soreness of standing and walking to the bathroom.

Reivon emerges in a rush of steam and damp heat and Onya can feel her face soften. Reivon blinks at the scene--there is a thump that indicates Klark has fallen to the floor, and Onya can hear her chanting to herself: “oh my god, oh my god, oh my god.” Reivon raises an eyebrow and Onya lets the smile flicker in the corners of her mouth. Reivon touches the inside of her wrist as they pass. 

Onya dresses, listening with half an ear to the rumble of Reivon’s gonasleng and Klark’s little squawking responses. She braids her hair and takes a little longer than she might’ve normally, distracted by the thought of waking up in the mornings and having Reivon’s clever fingers neatening her bangs. 

 

By the time she leaves the bathroom Klark seems functional, at least enough to come with them to breakfast. Onya leaves them to it, catching sight of Okteivia headed towards their table, and finds Leksa in a meeting room, looking as close to petulant as Onya has ever seen her, even as a child. Titus leans over her, one hand planted on the table, the other gesturing. 

“ _You cannot possibly take time off at this time_ ,” he is saying as she enters, closing the door neatly behind her. “ _Your people need you, and you would--vacation_? With _baga_?”

Leksa snorts, standing abruptly. “ _Baga_? Titus, please. Are we still so isolated we need a word for people not born here?” She greets Onya with a nod, something relaxing minutely in her jaw. “He disapproves of our planned trip to the mountains.”

“ _And you are surprised?_ ” Onya inclines her head to Titus, the barest gesture of respect. “ _Ticha_.”

“Onya. Tell your _seken_ to see reason. This is not the time to be carousing with… outsiders.” Titus is older than Onya remembers--it irks her every time, that she expects places and people to look the same as they did Before, untouched by time--new lines on his face, a scar that stretches from his temple to his ear, spiderweb thin and twisted at the ends. 

Leksa hisses. “ _Heda_ is no one’s _seken_. You are excused.”

Titus sweeps out, furious, casting Onya a look as he goes. Onya waits until the door shuts behind him. “ _I can’t remember if he was always like this, or if it’s new_.”

“Always,” Leksa mutters. “You just never had lessons with him.”

“Heavy lies the crown,” Onya tells her, and it’s out of character enough Leksa huffs out something that’s almost a laugh. 

“Clarke and the others?”

“At breakfast.” Onya takes a hesitant step forward. “Leksa--you are not my _seken_.”

“Yes,” Leksa says, shuffling through papers with a snap, frustration in the short jerky movements of her fingers. “I do listen to the words that come out of my own mouth. “

Onya catches her by the wrist, very careful. “A _fos_ is always a _fos_.”

Leksa exhales. Her fingers go limp, then flex. She neatens her papers into a stack and sets them aside. “ _Mochof_.”

“Will you join us?”

She shakes her head. “I must do some groundwork before I leave. To appease Titus, at least.” Onya makes a noise, agreeable, and turns to leave. “Anya. Will you--will you keep an eye on them. While I am attending to other matters?”

Onya goes still. She touches the hilt of her sword. “You have concerns?”

Leksa frowns for a moment, then takes a deliberate breath. “No. But I would feel more comfortable if someone I trusted were looking after them.”

“ _After Klark_ ,” Onya teases. Leksa flushes. 

 

Onya follows them around, a tour guide prattling on in faintly accented _gonasleng_ about history and architecture and history. Okteivia is transfixed, snapping photos and scrawling notes, and Onya amuses herself by occasionally stepping on the back of Klark’s shoe and looking idly innocent when she trips and whips around to glower.

Reivon catches her by the waist in an alcove. “You’re playful today,” she murmurs. Onya keeps one eye on Klark and Okteivia when she dips to press a kiss to Reivon’s smiling lips. She wonders if Reivon is right. She wonders if this is what playful feels like, if that is what the warm glow in her chest is, the lightness in her feet when Reivon says her name.

//

On the night Trigeda burned to ash, Bekka lead them through the passageways. She took an arrow to the thigh shielding Kostia with her own body and Onya half carried her to the edge of the woods. “I was always better with a pen,” she murmured, her mouth half-rueful. “I cannot run, Onya.”

They left her there, under the trees. Onya drew the dagger from her thigh sheath, her name inscribed under Indra’s and Heda’s insignia wrapping around the blade; an oath and a promise. She guided Bekka’s hands around the hilt, curling her fingers gently. Leksa knelt at her side. “A cleric saved Heda,” Leksa said, and kissed her temple.

“ _Mebi oso na hit choda op nodotaim_ ,” Bekka murmured, face drawn and pale. She tried to smile. Onya touched the center of her forehead, between her eyebrows and below her hairline, and then her own heart. A warrior's salute, and Bekka looked peaceful when her spirit slipped out of her eyes.

“May we meet again,” Onya echoed.

//

Onya’s body remembers how to ride, even though it’s been a number of years. Her legs grip, her body rolls, lifting falling with his gait. “I haven’t named him,” she tells Reivon, cradled against her chest. The reins are looped loosely around one hand, the other guiding Reivon’s hips gently. “But see how he moves?” She twitches the reins very faintly and he whickers under her, adjusting his heading minutely. “There are no bad horses, only bad people.”

“Bad trainers,” Reivon corrects.

“I know what I said.” Reivon shakes faintly against her, laughing, and Onya lets the smile tug her lips up. 

“They called him _Sontaum_ ,” Onya tells her. 

“ _Sontaum_ ,” Reivon repeats, clumsy. “ _Sontaum_.” It sounds better the second time, and Onya flexes her hand on Reivon’s hip, approving. “Does it mean anything?”

“Summer. I assume that’s when he was foaled.”

Reivon leans back slightly, her weight warm and comforting. “And you want to change it?”

“Yes. I do not believe he was treated well.” There are fine scars around his mouth, Onya has noticed, a white pucker line along his tongue. Reivon touches the streak a whip left on the back of his neck, where the hair doesn’t grow back. 

“He is lucky then.” Reivon links their fingers, faintly sweaty and almost clumsy. Her index fingernail traces gently on Onya’s skin. “To have found you.”

That morning Onya had fed her new horse apples from the palm of her hand and felt his head lean on her shoulder, snuffling at her for oats and sugar treats. She’d climbed a tree and picked three crabapples for breakfast, there’s still one in her pocket to share with Reivon at mealtime. “We are all very lucky,” she says, slipping her fingers free to slide her palm to press warm and steady against Reivon’s belly, under her shirt. “To be where we are.”

 

Their peace is broken only minutes later, Onya tensing when she hears the thumpthump of an approaching gona. Alek draws her mount alongside Onya and flickers her eyes at Reivon. “ _Speak_ ,” Onya says, sharp. 

“ _Reports of an Azgeda group gathering at Vik Falls. Titus calls for Heda’s return._ ”

Onya frowns. “ _Sweep the area and return to the capital. Heighten security and send word if anything changes_.”

“Intrigue?” Reivon asks, when Alek has nudged her horse into a canter and disappeared into the trees. 

“Something of the sort,” Onya replies, vague. She points ahead. “There.”

“Good,” Reivon exhales, relieved. “I was getting worried my legs would get stuck like this. Never stand straight again.”

“How straight did you stand before?” Onya wonders, and grunts when Reivon socks her in the arm.

 

Reivon groans when Onya helps her to the ground. She wobbles and Onya steadies her. Onya casts a quick look about them--Okteivia is leaping from the saddle, to land safely in Linkon’s arms with a whoop; as always, Leksa and Klark and completely enraptured with one another. Onya steals a kiss, quicksilver fast, barely enough time to feel the warmth of Reivon’s lips on hers, the wet of her tongue. Reivon looks oddly thoughtful when she pulls away and she hesitates, their bodies still leaned intimately into one another. “Reivon?”

“Mm,” Reivon says. She shakes herself and darts forward for another kiss. “Nothing. Show me around?”

//

When Onya first went to the capital to train, they sent her to the long skinny buildings with the beds in bracket stacks, the _youngon_ barracks. She lay at night listening to the outside noises, the bugs and the guards whistling at each other, the stirrings of her bunkmates. She thinks of her village the most during those nights, the simple house she grew up in, how she and her brother used to sneak out and sleep under the stars instead. It took her almost three months to take less than two hours to fall asleep.

 

The second apartment they lived in after they fled had a hole the roof. They layered clear plastic against it and a pot on the floor for the rainy season and Onya slept under it, between the door and the others. It wasn’t nearly clear enough to see the sky, but Onya felt oddly comforted when it glowed faintly with the moonlight on cloudless nights.

 

The celebrations are loud after they take back Polis. The fires burn late into the night and even now, the moon high, Onya can hear the people singing. She ranges away, walking for a while before she breaks into the treeline and finds quiet in their leaves. She’s tired--drained, with adrenaline bitter on her tongue and shaky muscles aching with exertion. She leans against a tree and sets her blade aside to tip her head against the trunk. The stars are echoingly familiar, almost deja-vu more than memory, and she stares until her eyes burn with it, to reset herself, remind her of home.

//

“ _Are you sure_?” Leksa is frowning again--she has smiled so much since Klark came that Onya had forgotten the look of it on her face. She’d frowned almost continuously since she killed Nia, the expression fading away only when Klark touched her shoulder in greeting. 

“ _I find the timing--_ ” Linkon walks by and Onya pauses, waiting until he’s passed. “ _\--slightly convenient. We are not far from the city, and the messenger birds are fast. I do not think it requires your immediate attention._ ”

Leksa’s frown somehow grows deeper. “ _The Falls are not far from here. Just on the other side--_ ” she fumbles suddenly, blinking. “--of the mountains,” she finishes in _gonasleng_. Her face goes rueful. “ _I have grown rusty_.”

Onya makes a non-committal noise, waving her hand dismissively. “ _The mountains are steep and already your accent improves_.”

“ _I have an accent_?”

“ _I didn’t want to mention it. Seemed rude. Might be executed for treason_.”

Leksa blinks at her, then smiles. “ _Home is a good look on you_.”

Just a hundred feet away, patting the horse on the nose and smiling when he mouths gently at her jacket, Reivon is standing in a sunbeam, the lush green of Trigeda as her backdrop, the firm ground beneath her feet. She is leaned slightly to the side to accommodate the soreness of her leg, she is sweaty and disheveled from the ride. She is strikingly beautiful. “ _Sha_ ,” Onya agrees, slightly distant. “ _I think so too_.”

 

Reivon hangs behind while the others enter the cabin, exploring. “So uh,” she says. She looks like she is steeling herself. “About where I’m sleeping.”

“I prefer the sky,” Onya says. She pauses. “I--I would like it very much if you were to join me.”

Reivon’s face breaks into a smile. “Yes,” she says, “I think I can manage that.”

 

Onya strings the hammock up. It’s triple wide, and the motions are comforting, familiar. She remembers learning how to make these knots, the children’s rhymes she memorized to cement the knowledge. She’s pleased these trees are placed just so, the cabin in view but removed from their immediate surroundings. Reivon joins her with blankets and Onya lays them across the web to soften the scratch of the ropes. She strips off her jacket and her boots. Her fingers are at the waistband of her pants when Reivon stops her, butterfly light touch on the back of her knuckles. 

“ _Let me_ ,” Reivon says, and Onya’s breath catches. 

“ _Reivon_ ,” she replies, her accent thick.

Reivon smiles, a touch nervous. “I, uh, asked Octavia to help me a little. She says my accent isn’t bad.” She clears her throat. “ _Ai laik Reivon_.”

Onya’s chest wooshes out--she’s almost dizzy. She sucks in a lungful of air and sways towards Reivon, sharing breath while Reivon helps her out of her pants, skimming the backs of Onya’s thighs, the soft sensitive skin behind her knees. “ _Ai laik Onya_.”

“ _Ai no. Will you--_ ” Reivon trips over the third word and tries again. “ _Will you willing to rest bed now with me?_ ”

Onya thinks her ears might be ringing. She finds Reivon’s lips under hers, slightly cool from the air and chapped from the altitude, fading to warmth and then heat the farther Onya slips her tongue into Reivon’s mouth. She fumbles with Reivon’s jacket, her shirt, the clasp of her bra. “ _You’re beautiful_ ,” she says, trailing kisses across Reivon’s shoulder, her fingers tracing Reivon’s spine and drawing her closer by the small of her back. “ _A sky person manages half a sentence and I lose my head; if Bekka could see me now…_ ”

“I have no idea what you’re saying,” Reivon pants, fingers knotting in Onya’s hair to keep her mouth on her throat. “But it better not be some other girl’s name when we’re about to fuck.”

Onya breaks her mouth away with a wet pop. They rest their foreheads together and Onya watches Reivon’s face: the arch of her nose, her long lashes against her cheek. The way a shiver ripples up from her chest when Onya helps her out of her clothes. They kiss again and Onya drops her weight slightly to lift, careful of Reivon’s leg and she settles them into the gentle curve of the hammock, her on her back with Reivon draped on her chest. 

Onya runs her fingertips along Reivon’s shoulderblades, across all her ribs. There is a bump on the lowest left one, the skin faintly puckered just above. Onya dips her nail into the divot and makes a noise of loss when Reivon takes away the heat of her mouth from under Onya’s jaw. “Shh,” Reivon murmurs, sitting up to straddle Onya’s hips. The moon washes over her, casting an ethereal glow about her, shining on her dark glossy hair. She smells like sweat, from the ride, and horse, and dirt from the rich earth below them. She tastes like winter rain.

“ _Hodness_ ,” Onya breathes, and touches Reivon’s chest, her slim curves and soft firm pebble of her nipples. Reivon rides her hips, slick and burning where they grind together. Onya slides her hands down and around, gripping at Reivon’s ass, the back of her thighs. 

Reivon drops, suddenly, their bellies slapped together, her hands braced beside Onya’s head. “ _Oddness_ ,” she repeats, garbled. She frowns, her pace slowing. Onya groans. “That’s not right. What was it?” Onya tries to pull her for a kiss and Reivon shakes her off. “Hold on, this is gonna bother me.” Onya bucks her hips up. Reivon pinches her, almost absent. “Stop that, give me a second.” Onya sighs, and grumbles lowly to herself as Reivon frowns into the distance and mutters to herself. She mutters something that sounds like “Thocular-t,” and then a quick string of a language Onya doesn’t know. “ _Hodness_ ,” she tries.

Onya freezes. She stares at Reivon’s lips, her hand suddenly slack. She can hear the cicadas buzzing. 

“ _Hodness_ , Reivon says again. Onya is surprised at the noise that comes out of herself, low and dragging from her chest, so punched through with arousal her eyes almost cross. Reivon smiles. Her thumb presses against Onya’s clit, spit damp, unrelenting pressure with the weight of her body behind it and Onya arches up, colors on the back of her eyelids. 

“ _Hodness_ ,” she replies, hoarse and kitten weak twitching of her muscles. Reivon kisses her, sloppy, missing her mouth and landing on the edge of her jaw, her chin, her nose. Her hips are driving without rhythm and she slips her finger between Onya’s lips, scraping against her teeth. Onya can taste herself. 

Reivon is talking again in the language Onya doesn’t understand, choppy and groaned, between air sucked between the clench of her teeth. “Onya,” she says, every so often between strings of other words. She buries her face into the side of Onya’s neck and seizes up with a quiet high pitched whine, her hips stuttering and then going still.

Onya lets her hands wander again, marveling at the silk soft damp smoothness of Reivon’s skin, the way she can feel Reivon’s breathing start to even out, their chests pressed tight when they exhale at the same time. The stars are bright and the moon is full and Onya can smell the wetness mixed between their thighs like flowers in the air. 

 

“What were you saying?” she asks, after a long time. Reivon has slid to cuddle against her side, shirts tugged on hastily and legs tangled under thick blankets. “The other--” her brain blanks out and she huffs, unable to find the word. “The other _gonasleng_.”

“The Spanish?” Reivon shrugs, nuzzling a little, and Onya wraps an arm around her shoulders in response, tucking her closer. “Wait, is there no word for Spanish in _trigedasleng_?”

Onya lets her fingers stroke along Reivon’s bicep. “There is _trigedasleng_ and there is _gonasleng_.”

Reivon snorts against her skin. “Nice.”

Onya shrugs. “We are a simple people.” They’re quiet again, for a short while, and a bird calls in the distance, mournful and sweet. “We--there used to be no numbers.”

Reivon is horrified at the lack of math in their history. “What??”

Onya corrects quickly. “There was some. _Won, tu, thri_. And this was a long time ago.”

“What came after three?”

“ _Won_ ,” Onya repeats. “ _tu, thri, tona_.”

“ _Tona_ ,” Reivon repeats.

“Many,” Onya translates. She remembers learning this in school, the way they marveled their ancestors didn’t have any need for numbers beyond three. 

Reivon thinks on this for a while. “Cool,” she says, and then bites Onya’s arm gently. “Sleep?”

“Yes,” Onya agrees. She drifts off between breaths, less than a minute later.

//

Onya has attempted to read every pamphlet the police officers and hospital doctors gave her. Her gonasleng is weaker than she thought it was, the vocabulary far different from the working words she learned in lessons. Her accent is thicker than she thought it was, and more obvious now that there are so very few of her own people around her. She receives odd looks in the markets and learns how to find what she needs without asking for help. A man in a truck follows her halfway home and throws mud at her and she hunches her shoulders instead of putting his face through the windshield. 

A week after, they scatter Tris and Kostia to the wind beneath the wilted tree that grows in the closest park to them, the best bit of green earth she could find to lay them to rest, and Leksa is still pale and still. She moves around their new apartment like a ghost and calls out in her sleep and Onya cannot soothe her. She waits three more days and breaks--she takes the bus to the library.

There is a girl behind the counter with pretty brown eyes and a headscarf decorated with flowers. She is watering a plant when Onya enters and it’s that small act that makes Onya approach the desk. She speaks low and guarded and lets her words run together like she’s affected by drink or sleep to hide her accent. _Amal_ , the girl’s nametag reads, and she smiles like Onya’s words aren’t stilted and awkward, her tongue failing to replicate the complicated garble of gonasleng.

Amal takes her to the bookshelves, then out back to the picnic tables with the rusted out nails and dried out crabgrass. She goes through them, patient beyond belief, and answers Onya’s questions. “I like your accent,” she says, quiet, and when Onya tenses she just smiles. “You think I don’t know what it’s like to feel English like a taste on your tongue?” She sighs, quiet, her fingers tracing letters on the spines of the books between them. “Broken English.”

“Broken English,” Onya repeats. She thinks she never noticed her accent before she came here and found the warmth of it missing from other people’s words. 

Amal takes her hand. “If it is broken, it’s because they shatter the rest of the world and make the pieces into their sharp edged words. Can’t you feel them cut your throat when they leave?”

Onya smiled for the first time in a long while. “You’re very dramatic for a librarian.”

“I’m a poetic soul.”

//

Leksa takes the others for a hike. She packs rations into two bags, handing one off to Linkon and absentmindedly ignoring Klark’s increasingly obvious hints they should forego physical exercise. “ _You are staying?_ ”

“ _Yes_ ,” Onya agrees. “ _We agreed not to leave them alone_.” It is not a lie, and yet something stirs in Onya’s gut, unpleasant. She frowns. 

Leksa clasps her on the shoulder, misunderstanding. “You’re right. Thank you.”

Onya shifts on her feet. “Of course. _I am not unfond of them_.”

“ _Even Klark_?”

Onya shrugs. “ _Perhaps the wind will carry her off the mountain_.”

Leksa rolls her eyes. 

 

“This one,” Onya tells Reivon, the two of them just barely out of sight of the cabin. She touches the slim trunk of a paler tree just beside her, her nails digging into the soft bark. “See how it peels away?”

“Unless it’s going to peel away to reveal a lighter, you’re still in charge of the fire.”

Onya fights her smile. “It has to be the same tree,” she continues, snapping off a small low hanging branch and stripping it neatly. She crouches, working quickly, the wood warming under her spinning palms, the muscle memory coming back like it’s been two weeks rather than years and years ago. 

“C’mon baby,” Reivon teases, leaned up against the tree and peering down. “Light my fire.” Onya says nothing, huffing gently at her baby friction flame. “I can’t tell if you don’t get the joke or if you’re just incapable of humor in general.” Onya smiles, sudden and bright; she can’t remember why she needed to hide it away when it’s just them, here and together. Her fire leaps to life and she stands to nudge kindling on it while Reivon whoops in victory. 

“To your liking?” Onya asks, and her smile grows when they kiss. 

“Mm.” Reivon whistles to herself, bending to peer at the flowers and craning her head at the trees, while Onya ensures the fire will stay put and lit, readies the snares. 

“Ready?” Reivon nods, and they walk. Onya wonders if she should take Reivon’s hand. She can’t decide, but she crowds closer than she needs to, shoulders bumping, her hand brushing Reivon’s leg. 

She shows Reivon the green grey vine that crawls up the trunks of mossy trees, cautioning her not to let her bare skin touch its broad leaves. She carves her knife under the small edible mushrooms and winds mint around them and blows the dirt away before slipping it between Reivon’s lips, Reivon’s teeth gentle on her finger. 

She’s half-tracking something--a deer, she thinks, but she assumes they’re moving too slowly, too noisily to catch up to it. She’d thought to set snares, but balked when she thought of Reivon watching her kill something, even as small as a rabbit or pheasant. She plans to guide them in a rough circle, back to the fire and her pack secured in a tree: water and sandwiches and those packaged cakes she knows Reivon likes. 

So she’s surprised when they break into the clearing and there’s a deer thrashing in the underbrush. She freezes automatically, her knife springing to her fingers, one hand keeping Reivon behind her. The deer goes still, panting and staring at them, wild wide eyes. It’s a doe, her left foreleg tangled and trapped. Onya lets her knife slip back up her sleeve and Reivon leans into her side, peering. “Is she….?”

“Stay.” Onya sidles up, slow and easy, keeping out of reach. The doe’s flanks are streaked with sweat, heaving, and her nostrils flare with her panicked snorting breaths. Onya is concerned that she will charge once she’s able, and she’s tense as she cuts the deer free, retreating quickly once she’s done. Onya watches her dart away, the bob of her tail and the crack of leaves and dry twigs. There’s something there, in the coiled spring of her hind legs, the way she flees like freedom was only half a relief. Onya stays looking after her for longer than she meant to.

“Huh,” Reivon says, bringing her back to the moment. “I didn’t know I was screwing Snow White.”

Onya blinks twice, then smiles. “If anything,” she says, making her way back to Reivon to catch her around the waist and spin her a little. “I am the Huntsman.” She nudges Reivon up against the trunk of a tree and nips playfully at her just below her jaw, before placing a quiet careful kiss to Reivon’s shirt where the jacket gapes open, just above Reivon’s heart. “Have I succeeded in stealing your heart?”

Reivon snorts. They sway into each other, torsos pressed tight, the breeze ruffling pleasantly through their hair. “Is this you flirting? Because I did not expect you to have a working knowledge of Disney.”

“I have hidden depths,” Onya says, flatly, and Reivon laughs. “There is a lake,” Onya says, careful slow. “Not far, with the horses. If you would care to stay another day.”

Reivon kisses her for a long time and Onya gets lost in it, the glide of their lips and the way Reivon goes down off her tiptoes after a while, dragging Onya’s head down to keep them pressed together. When she finally breaks with a breathless noise and says “I’d like that,” rough and hoarse and smiling, Onya has almost forgotten what the question was.

//

Onya thinks her days of trouncing her _seken_ are not long for lasting. For now, Leksa is still too small for her weapons, needing both hands to lift her sword and her body tiring far before her mind does, and experience goes a long way in combat. Even at her young age, she is already better than Onya at strategy and politics. She will never be bulky, Onya thinks, but she won’t need to. Like Onya, she can compensate with skill--and speed. She is the fastest trainee Onya has ever seen--faster than all the fully graduated warriors. And as Heda, her mind is far more important than the swell of her muscles.

Onya circles her, kicking Leksa’s stance wider with the butt of her training staff. “Again,” she orders, and Leksa grits her teeth and pushes herself until her muscles tremble and she sways on her feet. Onya half carries her to the washrooms and waits outside, half-concerned she will be responsible for the future leader of her people drowning in the shower, then marches Leksa to the kitchens and makes her eat two sandwiches and drink four glasses of water.

Leksa slumps into her shoulder, mumbling something Onya can’t make out, and Onya steers them towards their quarters. She hums absently, finding that she enjoys Leksa’s slight weight against her side, the warm huff of her breath and the damp tickle of her messy unbraided hair against her arm. She deposits Leksa onto her bed, lifting up her limbs to get her settled. Leksa’s unconscious immediately, and Onya arranges her into a comfortable position before draping the blanket about her. It’s odd to see her like this, unmoving and so young, without her eyes burning or her face soft with compassion.

“I think,” Onya tells her as she slides a pillow under Leksa’s head, “one smaller sword and a parrying dagger. Perhaps two small swords, you’re skilled enough.”

Leksa drools into the pillow. Her foot twitches and her brow furrows until Onya lays a gentle hand on the back of her head and strokes her hair. Onya remembers that her mother used to sing a song to her smallest brother when he was sickly, until the fever took him, but she can’t remember the words. She hums something tuneless instead, crouched down next to her charge and untangling the knots of her hair, until Leksa’s face smoothes out and she begins to snore.

//

Onya circles Leksa and smiles a wolf’s grin. Leksa’s eyes are light and her shoulders without tension and when she lunges her _baston_ clacks against Onya’s staff. 

“ _You’re getting slow_ ,” Leksa teases. 

Onya catches her in a grapple, playful and knowing Leksa allows it out of fun. They tumble to the ground, tussling good naturedly. “ _Flexing for Klark?_ ” Onya asks, and when Leksa’s eyes dart sideways she sticks her finger in Leksa’s ear, wet with mud.

Leksa yelps. “ _Goufa_ ,” she mutters, shoving Onya away. “I am glad we have come here. I---will not regret this, no matter what comes next.” She takes a breath, deep, her head tilted up and eyes almost unfocused. “Do you remember---the festival, the last one before…”

Onya looks up at the sky, cloudless and vast, the sun burning white yellow. “ _I remember all of it._ ”

Leksa is silent for a long moment. Then her face clears. “Did you catch anything for dinner?”

Onya rolls onto her back and stretches, feeling her knee crack and the scar in her shoulder pull, just on the edge of unpleasantly sore. “Snare caught a turkey.”

Leksa pauses. “Killed it?”

There’s a slamming crash from inside the cabin, and a clear shriek. Okteivia appears to look shaky and flash a thumbs up at Klark and Reivon, sitting on the porch. Leksa laughs and Onya almost starts in surprise--it’s such a clean sound, unburdened. “ _It is good,_ she finds herself saying, abrupt, “ _to hear you happy._ ”

Leksa offers her a hand and pulls Onya to her feet. For a second they sway into each other, an almost embrace. “We are _home_ ,” Leksa says, and when Onya exhales she feels like she has lost something in her heart. 

 

Reivon has caught her fingers and led her to the grassy meadow just out of sight of the cabin, a grove hidden by heavy branches and thick leaves. She sits against a tree and tugs at Onya until she lays with her head in Reivon’s lap and Reivon’s fingers in her hair. 

“I feel strange,” she confesses, quiet and without prompting.

Reivon hums. She scritches slightly behind Onya’s ear. “Is it different than you thought it would be?”

“No. It is better than I could have ever dreamed.” The sun casts dappled shadows, trickling through the trees to glow in odd shapes on their skin and clothing, and the breeze whispers between the birdsongs. Reivon waits, and Onya curls her finger around Reivon’s wrist to bring to to her mouth, feel the flutter hum of Reivon’s pulse under her lips. “I think I am happy.”

“Oh,” Reivon says, impossibly gentle. “I understand.” She turns Onya’s wrist over and strokes her namesakes etched in dark black ink, over and over, and says nothing while Onya trembles and gasps and grieves to lose her rage. 

//

Onya found Leksa in the mess hall. “I am surprised to see you,” she greets, sitting with a few fruits and spinning her knife in her fingers before sinking her teeth into the soft ripe flesh. 

Leksa frowns at her plate. She stabs her roll with her knife. “I have responsibilities. They have been made very clear.”

“You sound like Titus.”

Leksa sighs, adolescent woe. Then her face flickers. She looks, just for a few seconds, older, drawn. “She understands. Our people come first.”

“ _Sha_.” Onya eats in silence for a moment, watching the furrow between Leksa’s eyes. “You are not Heda yet.”

“Not yet,” Leksa echoes. “But still.” She stands. “I have lessons.” There is a letter peeking out from under her tray and Onya gets to it before Leksa can snatch it up. 

Onya reads it. It has been scented, heavily, with something light and woodsy. She folds it back up and tucks it beneath Leksa’s belt, snug and secure. “She will understand. But it is the Solstice.”

Leksa touches her belt. Her face goes soft, then hardens. “There will be other Solstices.”

 

Years later and they visited Kostia’s grave together. It’s an empty one, her body burned and the ashes scattered. Onya had been surprised when Leksa came to her with the request. She braided flowers together in the car, careful dextrous fingers and cursing under her breath when the stems snapped. The final wreath smelled of lavender and jasmine and Leksa kissed the broad blue petals of the largest flower before laying it beneath Kostia’s headstone. 

“ _Duty_ ,” she murmured, her fingers pressed against the engraved letters. “ _Heda over heart_.”

Onya’s hand hovered over Leksa’s shoulder. “ _Come,_ ” she said finally. “ _There is much to do._ ”

Leksa swallowed, her face twisted in grief. Onya was sharply reminded of the first few days after, when Leksa sat limply on the edge of the cheap motel mattress and stared at the wall and rocked with her head in her hands instead of sleeping. “Do you remember,” Leksa asked in gonasleng, hoarse and oddly monotoned, “the Solstice? The last one, _before_...”

“ _Sha, of course_.”

“Do you think I should have---” Leksa stopped, abrupt. “She asked me for so little. To move the flower behind her other ear. One day to walk in a festival.”

Onya shifted on her feet. “Leksa--”

“ _She asked me for so little_.” Leksa kissed the tips of two fingers and touched the top of the tombstone, gentle. “And gave everything. _I will take you home, one day, hodness. Swega klin_.”

//

Klark appears at dinner holding a cat. Onya has seen it around, crouched in corners and sleeping near the horses. The others bandy about names after dinner and Onya rolls her eyes at them. She likes cats; she finds them sensible with relatable motivations. 

She tells Reivon so that night, the hammock gently swinging, and Reivon shakes against her with laughter. “Of course,” she says, her tone colored with fondness, and Onya has to kiss her.

Reivon’s fingers have just started to dip into the waist of her pants when an unmistakable moan rumbles through the trees. They pause. Noises reach them in the still night air--masculine and feminine, mixed tones and pitches. “Oh my god,” Reivon hisses. “I can’t believe them.”

She kisses Onya and Onya tries to lose herself in it. They both give up when names start to echo around them. “Klark,” Onya mutters, dark.

Reivon rolls her eyes, barely visible in the dark. “Not everything is Clarke’s fault.” She fits her palm to Onya, then rotates to stroke along her tattoos.

“You like these.”

“They’re mine,” Reivon says, and her voice is tinged with something: maybe smugness, maybe possessive. Onya’s heart leaps to hear it; it thunders. She falls asleep slow, their bodies snugly fitted together, cheek to cheek and fingers braided.

 

Onya merely has to raise an eyebrow to make Leksa go fire red. “ _Like a yowling cat in the night_ ,” Onya mutters.

“ _I order you to stop_ ,” Leksa hisses.

Onya has seen this on American television. The translation is tricky, but she thought of it every time she woke in the night to another sound of her _seken_ crying out. “ _When two people love each other very much,_ ” she begins. Leksa throws a knife at her, slow and deliberately aimed to the side, and Onya bats it away without much effort. She withdraws something from her saddleback, a thin bit of latex she had retrieved that morning from the first aid kit in the cabin. “Be safe.”

Leksa gapes at her. “You--”

Onya begins to bring the latex to her mouth. “A demonstration, Heda--”

Leksa kicks her off her horse into the lake. Onya comes up spluttering with laughter, Reivon peering over the banks. “Holy shit, did Lexa just try to kill you? Again?”

“A disagreement,” Onya tells her, “between sisters.”

 

They stop for lunch on their way to the campsite and Onya takes Reivon on her back, Reivon’s legs snug around her sides, her ankles locked around Onya’s waist. Onya carries her until the other voices fade away and they’re alone in the green and the fresh turned soil. Reivon lowers herself to the ground with a wince and kneads at her thigh with the knuckles of one hand. “Teach me something?”

Onya slices into a peach with her knife and lets the juice drip. She passes Reivon the sweetest slice, the first bite. “Oh?”

Reivon rolls her eyes. “No, really.” She takes the slice from Onya and eats it in neat bites, tongue flicking out to clean her fingers. Onya becomes faintly distracted. “Hello? You there?”

“Yes,” Onya says, snapping back to reality. “Alright. Fire, then.”

She finds the right kind of tree, strips the bark from a branch, demonstrates how to tuck dry grass and twigs around it, create the friction, breathe life into a tiny flame. Reivon watches her with faintly furrowed brow and a visible aura of concentration. 

Onya hands her a fresh branch. Reivon copies her previous moments, clumsy and slow. “Come on,” she mutters, “come on, come on. You’re the most beautiful bit of wood in this whole forest, baby, come on and light my fire.”

Onya lets her struggle for a few long moments. “Among my people,” she says, when Reivon huffs and pants, frustrated. “When we struggle with this, we offer a prayer to the old gods.”

Reivon opens her mouth slightly, face openly curious and accepting. She pauses. Her eyes narrow. Then she throws her stick at Onya. “You’re an asshole.”

“Please respect my culture--” Onya ducks as a stone follows. She lunges, swooping Reivon up into her arms. “We have lighters too,” she tells her. 

Reivon sighs, put on dramatics, and lays her arms around Onya’s neck. “But how will I earn my wilderness badge?”

Onya lays her down onto the grass and the flowers and sucks a mark just under Reivon’s jaw. “I think we can come up with something.”

 

Leksa finds her while the fish crackle over a fire, after preening over Klark not managing to slice a major vein open while cleaning their dinner. “She is a very skilled doctor,” she tells Onya, all puffed up and glowing with pride, and Onya rolls her eyes again. By the fire, an ember leaps up and lands on Klark’s arm, making her squawk.

“ _A prodigy to be sure_ ,” Onya mutters. Leksa settles beside her, their feet dangling in the water. Onya is watching Reivon smile with her friends, the flash of her white teeth and the dimple high in her cheek. 

“I know you talked to Titus about this trip.” 

Onya shrugs. “What does it matter?”

Reivon laughs, loud and joyous. Okteivia is sitting in Linkon’s lap and Klark looks back at them, her eyes softening when they reach Leksa’s face, something young and sweetly yearning in the way she beckons them back to the fire. They stand as one, and Leksa touches Onya’s shoulder, then her elbow. “ _It matters._ ”

//

Onya met Linkon when he was still smaller than her. She didn’t think much of him--smart, good with a blade, the best scout of all the trainees. She heard stories about him, how well he understands the land, how quick he can draw a rough map and how accurate his earth sense is. 

What she remembers best is how he carried Tris to the plane while Onya held the line, and how he came back for her. She likes him more for it, and it helps that he quietly and capably takes over creating a web of connections while Onya struggles to keep herself afloat. She has never forgotten what she owes him.

//

Onya peers up into the tree the cat has fled into. “You spread your idiocy wherever you go; you’ve started to infect the animals.”

Klark glares. “I liked you better when you were silent.”

Onya’s eyes narrow. Her lip curls. Leksa strips her jacket off and hands it to Klark. “Stop antagonizing Anya. I’ll be right back.” She goes to the base of the tree and wraps her hands around the lowest branch, bracing a foot against the trunk.

Onya makes a noise of disapproval, starting forward, and Klark squawks a protest. They stop short and glare at each other, before aiming their ire at Leksa, who is already disappearing into the leaves in pursuit of the cat, who never did anything so idiotic as get stuck up a tree before Klark came along. There’s a sharp crack and a grunt of pain, and Onya’s fists clench even as Klark blathers on, her voice growing higher and more upset. She’s faintly appeased when Leksa lands firmly on solid ground and winces to see the look on Klark’s face. 

Reivon pokes at her shoulder, flicking her eyes between Leksa and Klark obviously. “I’m tired. One for the road?”

“Yes,” Onya agrees. She slips her fingers into Reivon’s and Reivon bumps her playfully as they walk away. 

They stop at the banks of the river. Onya holds Reivon steady while she slips off her socks and her shoes and rolls up the legs of her pants. They wade in until the water laps at their calves. Reivon touches her wrist again, her expression guarded. When she inhales it’s heavy, her shoulders bowed. “If I asked,” she asks, barely above a whisper, the running water sounds almost drowning it out, “if I asked, would you come with me?”

Onya exhales. Reivon’s grip is sure and her hand rough; their calluses fit together. She thinks, perhaps, Reivon is the only person she has ever loved in this way, the way of messy slick sex and morning breath kisses. “No.”

Reivon’s fingers tighten around hers. Onya watches her throat work as she swallows. “I think,” Reivon says, hesitant and slow and like she doesn’t want to say what she’s saying, “I could hate you.”

Onya has no defense. She dips her head and Reivon tilts up, accepting her kiss, closed mouth and the faint taste of salt. Onya withdraws after only a moment. “I have never believed lies about myself,” Onya tells her. “I know what I am.”

Reivon shakes her head. “A survivor. A good person.”

“A killer,” Onya corrects, gentle. “A soldier. I swore oaths. I know you may---I can’t fault you for how you feel. But I--” she pulls Reivon closer, weak. “I would like to carry you with me, as we are now. Please don’t say you hate me.”

Reivon’s jaw flexes. “I--”

Onya touches her nose to Reivon’s neck, swaying them. The water has numbed her legs and she can hear the birds starting to sing as dawn breaks. “ _Beja Reivon_ ,” she murmurs, selfish. “ _Niron._ ”

//

Once Amal took her for coffee, and they were caught in the rain. Onya made for the bus stop, but Amal touched her elbow. “I enjoy the rain,” she says, and they walk next to each other down the street. “The smell of it,” she sighs, tilting her face upwards. 

All Onya can smell is wet asphalt and the coffee in her hand. “It tastes different here.”

“Perhaps. If everything was the same there’d be no point in ever getting out of bed.”

Onya rolls her eyes. “Poets,” she mutters, and Amal giggles. 

“How is your friend? The one you come to read about.”

“I am… not sure.” Onya frowns down at her feet. “It doesn’t feel like I’m helping.”

Amal hums. “Do you want my opinion?”

“I don’t believe I could stop you from sharing it.”

Amal taps her shoulder on the arm, teasing. “I think those books you’ve been reading won’t help. No one knows her like you do. I think you help her by caring, and by being yourself.”

Onya thinks it through. She remembers Leksa ate almost a full meal two days ago, and has begun to shower more regularly, although her eyes remain flat and her face pale and oddly waxy. “Do you really believe that?”

“I don’t know. But you’re really not understanding these books, so maybe try something else.”

Onya smiles. They are drenched, Onya can feel her hair and nose dripping, Amal’s headscarf is completely saturated, the shape of her hair visible. They duck into Amal’s apartment and Onya shifts on her feet, uneasy, when Amal undoes her scarf and shakes out her long hair--it’s blonde, like Onya’s. Onya wonders if she should turn away. “You are incredibly poetic,” Amal tells her, taking her by the hand again. “For someone who vastly underappreciated the arts.”

Amal kisses her. She tastes like Darjeeling and rain and the heavy grey clouds that blot out the sun outside the window. She is chilled from the wind but she warms against Onya’s lips and under her hands, lain gentle on her hips. “I don’t--” Onya fumbles, “I can’t-- I can’t.”

Amal touched Onya’s hair, brought a lock close to her own to look at how closely they match. “I understand.” 

She makes Onya a cup of tea before they say goodbye. The kettle whistles and the rain rattles the roof and the windows and Amal tells her that her name in gonasleng means grace. “What does Amal mean?” Onya asks her, lingering in the hallway for reasons she can’t quite pinpoint.

Amal kissed her cheeks, one then the other. She smells like the jasmine flowers she keeps on her windowsill. “Hope, _habibi_.”

//

Onya finds Leksa sitting by the window. “ _Heda_?”

“We must all do what is best,” Leksa says, “for our people.” She watches her guards load the plane and extend the passenger stairs; she stands abruptly. “You and Reivon….”

“She understands.”

Leksa nods. She hesitates. “It doesn't help though, does it? The understanding.”

“Not today,” Onya agrees. 

 

Klark and Leksa are leaned together, speaking quietly. Linkon approached Onya, a bag slung over his shoulder. “ _I will look out for them_.”

Onya nods. “ _I wish I could say I was surprised_.”

Linkon shrugs. “ _I have freedoms you don’t. I am lucky that way_.”

Onya hums. “I will miss you,” she finds herself saying, and realizes it’s sincere. They shake hands. Reivon approaches and Linkon nods, moving away. 

“Reivon.”

Reivon half smiles. “Onya.”

Onya extends her fist, fingers down, and waits until Reivon holds her hand below it before opening her first. A lighter falls onto Reivon’s palm, carved bone. “For your girl scouts.”

Reivon touches the design. Crude as Onya’s artistic skills are, they are very clearly recognizable as ravens. “I should have let you tattoo me.”

Onya smiles. “I’m afraid I’m not as talented as you.”

Reivon tucks the lighter away, next to her heart. “I could never hate you,” she says, soft whispered and just for them. “Not really.”

“I am glad,” Onya says, quiet. “ _Mochof, Reivon._ ”

“ _Pro_ ,” Reivon replies, clumsy and accented. “Maybe… someday.”

“Someday,” Onya agrees. She even thinks it might be true.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> let me know what you think, and catch me on tumblr @ sunspill


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Resolution.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this entire chapter, or basically any of this fic, would not be possible without my smurf! iamthegaysmurf beta-ed, brainstormed, edited, prompted, everything. <3 <3 <3

When Onya was five, she sat in the little hut on the outskirts of her village, surrounded by the trees, and poured the tea and laid the herbs over the metal grating. She lit the fire and coughed at the sweet, sticky linger of the smoke in her throat and nose. She’d tried to hide that morning, crouched in the corner of her mother’s garden among the snap peas and the purple sweet potatoes until her father patted her on the head and hauled her out of the tall plants. 

Her mother scrubbed her with a cloth while she glowered and held her by the ear to get to the back of her neck while she squirmed for freedom. Dressed her in her brother’s old pants without the holes in knees and the hems and fussed at her hair until Onya tried to bite her hand. 

Onya drags her fingers through it, rebellious, while she’s walked to the hut. She knows it as the one the preteen boys throw rocks at during the witching hour when the moon hangs dark and the insects stay quiet, daring each other to touch the wall with a palm before fleeing back into the woods. “ _Die well_ ,” her brother tells her, smirking, and dodges her hissing snarling swat. 

Onya screws up her face and forces her spine straight and raises her chin and refuses to cower before the old woman. When her mother was ten, she’d been told to hang lavender over her door. The year the frost stayed through spring, Onya’s youngest brother died. She remember him only dimly; his crook-toothed smile and tiny chubby fingers. Her father calls the old woman a witch and ignores the gasps of the other adults in their village, the quick circle of their finger over their chest to keep the _keryonbaga_ away. “ _Superstition_ ,” he’d told Onya at dinner the night before. “ _But it’s what your mother wants_.”

 

The woman holds Onya’s hand in hers for a long time. She taps each of Onya’s little knuckles and the scrape on her wrist from a tussle in the dirt two days prior. She bites her fingernail into the webbing of skin between Onya’s index finger and thumb until Onya yelps in pain, blood welling up in a thick dark drop. She’s heard whispers from her agemates who’ve come and gone already, sneak peeks in vague hints and odd puzzles of what’s to come in their lives. Onya hopes she’ll be told how she’s going to get out of her village, away from the banal days of learning how to knead dough and nights that are too bright with the moon and suffocating, the humidity and the screaming of the cicadas. 

The woman catches Onya’s blood on her thumb and presses it gently to Onya’s forehead. She calls Onya a poor darling of a warriorgirl and while she’s turned away to put out the fire; Onya sucks her tiny wound into her mouth, soothing the pinprick hurt with her tongue. She waits to hear her fate, but the woman just gives her a knife that gleams in the dim light. “ _You were born in the river_ ,” she says, and Onya stumbles into the sun. 

 

//

“ _You’re quiet,_ ” Leksa notes at breakfast. 

Onya is carving her apple into smaller and smaller slices. She answers in gonasleng. “Am I?”

“ _Sha_ , even for you.” Leksa crunches into a slice of bread, still hot, golden crust and fluffy insides and spread thick with fresh butter. Her frown has been an ever present thing for days. “Something I can help with?”

“You cannot even help yourself.” It’s slightly more cutting than Onya intended, but it does make Leksa pause and look at her properly.

“Oh?” Leska’s voice is dangerously soft, too controlled. Onya’s spine straightens despite herself. 

“I miss Reivon,” she says, and the cold bare truth of it makes Leksa pause. She sighs.

“ _I miss Clarke_ ,” she admits. She blinks after, like she’s surprised at herself. Onya wonders if it is easier for her to be honest in trigedasleng, the way it is for Onya to be honest in English. “ _Kaiidth_ ,” Leksa says. 

It’s Onya’s turn to blink. “What?”

“It’s from television.”

Onya frowns. “You are not taking me seriously.”

Leksa stands, her movements jerky. “ _It is what it is. What can be changed?_ ”

“ _That’s what they said about you becoming Heda again, after years. About killing Nia._ ”

Leksa opens one of the many folders and dossiers littering the table. She licks fruit jam off her knuckle and flips it open. “Say what you mean, Anya.”

“You miss--” Onya twists her tongue up, her face scrunched. “Clarke. Why do you deny it?” Leksa opens her mouth and Onya barrels over her. In for a penny, in for a pound. “I know I am the last one would expect to say it, but-- _but you deserve to be happy_. Even if it’s with… Klark.”

Leksa is burying her face into papers now, obscuring her frown. “I am _Heda_. That is why it cannot be changed. _Blood must have blood. To be Heda is to be alone_.”

Onya stands and lets the bread knife fall from her plate with a clatter. “You are a coward.”

Leksa’s eyes flash. “Get out,” she says, cold. Her face is a flat mask, but her eyes flicker and the corner of her mouth tugs slightly down before going neutral. 

“ _You have never been able to lie to me_ ,” Onya reminds her. She leaves before Leksa can respond. 

 

Onya has a computer. It’s a beat up heavy thing that whistles when it’s online, even though the speakers have been broken for as long as she has had it. Leksa gave it to her on the lunar new year five years ago, and has marveled at its continued lifeforce every year thereafter. 

Onya hums to it companionably while it flickers and beeps and the fan whirs aggressively. She has an email from Reivon with a single string of letters, and Onya squints at the screen while she taps at the keyboard with one finger. Reivon answers on the first ring. “Luddite,” she says, fond.

“Hm.” Onya perches on her chair, peering into the cracked webcam. “And how is… everything?”

Reivon shrugs, her image grainy. “Boring. Clarke got a job at a gas station.”

Onya cracks a smile. “Oh?”

Reivon rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling back. “Leave her alone, she’s wallowing.” Reivon’s smile fades slightly. “Is this awkward? It feels a little awkward.”

Onya shrugs. As a general rule, she doesn’t notice awkwardness. But she misses Reivon’s physical presence, the real warmth of her smile, the feel of Reivon’s hand in hers. “I miss you,” she admits. A knocking at her door interrupts them.

“Get a phone,” Reivon tells her, before they hang up. “Text me.”

 

Leksa is in the training yard. There’s a ring of young people, mostly children, but fully grown adults as well, lingering by the fences, murmuring amongst themselves in soft, reverent whispers. Onya dispels them with her presence and the arch of an eyebrow, then slips over the fence. Leksa is breathing hard, sweat sheening on her face. Her eyes flicker to Onya before she exhales, turning and stowing her training swords in their slotted racks. She undoes the wrappings around her palms with neat efficiency, stripping them away and laying them aside. 

She arches, fingertips to the sky, until her back cracks, then rolls her head and bends at the waist to place her hands flat to the dirt. Onya rolls her eyes. 

“And how long will little _Heda_ be ignoring me?”

Leksa jerks very slightly, surprised. She meets Onya’s eyes. “It’s been a long time since I heard that nickname.”

Onya looks out at the grounds of the capital; the green trees and the scrabbly grass and the bite in the crisp air that tells her winter is coming. She has a meeting in an hour to coordinate the first official group of the new _gona_. “There were times,” she says, very soft and careful, “where I was so very certain that I would never see Trigeda again.”

Leksa’s breath catches. “Everyone doubts, Onya.”

“I remember that last night. I ate an apple in the stable--do you remember Ana, the horsemaster? I played cards with her and Davi. I was walking to our rooms when the bomb went off.”

“I remember,” Leksa says. Her eyes are far off. “Costia.” She doesn’t say any more than that for a long moment, drawn out between them. “I was sleeping when the sky fell.” Her refocus, her lips quirk. “Good thing it landed on your bed.”

Onya doesn’t return the smile. “You have always been older than you are. You were long before--” she struggles with the translation, “--before the divine. I think I often forgot how young you actually were when we fled. I don’t know if you understand the weight of what you have accomplished.”

“Onya--”

“ _If I have failed you_ ,” Onya continues over her. “ _You have been Heda for a long time, but you were Leksa when I took you_.”

Leksa grips her shoulder. “You have never failed me.” Her brow creases. “ _To be Heda is to be alone_.”

“To be Heda is to be alone,” Onya echoes, “but not to lie to yourself. Head over heart doesn’t mean you lock your heart away and ignore it. _Be brave, Leksa._ Speak your heart and rule with your head and grow your shoulders broad enough to carry the consequences.” She tilts her head into the sun. “ _How lucky are we, for our feet to find their way home again in the dark_.”

“Walk with me?” Leksa asks. Onya hesitates. “I do,” Leksa admits, “I do miss her.”

 

 

They walk to the edge of the buildings, the rubble where Nia never bothered to rebuild what she destroyed. Onya wonders if Nia liked to look at it, if it brought her satisfaction. There’s a river along the edge, just starting to get cold and icy. Soon it will be frozen over enough to walk across. They stand on the banks of it and listen to it rumble and roar. 

“ _I was born in a river_ ,” Onya says. When Leksa grips her forearm she closes her fingers around Leksa’s wrist, giving and receiving strength. An equal’s exchange.

“I feel the loss,” Leksa tells her. “I carry it here, in my chest.” She touches two fingers above her heart. “But I carry the light too. I feel it when I look at you.”

//

Onya remembers seeing her mother cry three times:

The first time was when they spread her brother’s ashes under the oak tree. Wove the _ti_ leaves into ropes and laid them across the pyre where he burned, and fasted from sunrise to sundown until they rotted away and the wind took them. She buried her fingers into the dirt and his bone fragments and the dried bits of leaf and Onya watched her shoulders shake until her father told her brother to take her inside. 

Onya snuck out in the dead of the night and found her way to the little lake surrounded by crumbling trees and picked the water lily from its pad, cradled the thin, long, soft white, petals in her palms and walked slow and careful back to her house. When she turned the corner, she heard her eldest brother shout and the pounding of her father’s feet as he ran to her, furious. He dragged her inside and her fingers spasmed, crushing the lily in her palm. 

Her mother slapped her across the face and then burst into tears, clutching her close. She kissed the red handmark on Onya’s tiny cheek and put the petals in a water cup in the sun and let Onya suck on the sheep bones at dinner.

 

She cried again when Onya came home with the dried thumbprint between the dip of her eyebrows. Her mother scrubbed at it with a cloth and hot water and tried to hide her tears while Onya attempted to wriggle away. “ _My youngest_ ,” she said, and it sounded like she was in mourning. _my only daughter_. 

Onya wakes in the middle of the night on her little cot and her mother is knelt by her side, her hand over Onya’s heart. She makes a sleepy noise and her mother shushes her. She kisses Onya on the forehead, lips where the the skin is red and scraped raw. 

 

The last time was the morning Onya left for the capital. She packed her bag and her father had mended the broken strap. The knife the old woman gave her was stowed in the side pocket. Her mother tucked a satchel of herbs from the garden above it and circled her finger above Onya’s heart on her chest to ward away the bad things. She kissed Onya’s forehead and told her to be everything she can be. 

Onya’s brother lifted her onto the wagon and the _gona_ that came to fetch her rested his heavy hand on her shoulder. She could barely see over the side and she stood on a box to watch her village disappear into the distance. Her father’s arm was around her mother’s waist and they were both shaking, their faces twisted in grief.

//

“Clarke came home smelling like straight up human feces today,” Reivon tells her, and Onya smiles more broadly than she’d allow herself if anyone was watching. The phone is a warm weight in her hand, a gift from Leksa that came with very minimal teasing considering she admitted she only needed one number in its banks. 

“Oh?” she asks, trying for guileless and falling short. “Tell me more.”

Reivon laughs, full and joyous. Onya thinks she will have to reconsider her stance on technology, to hear the colors and the subtleties of Reivon’s voice over so many hundreds of miles. “Octavia hosed her off in the front yard.”

Onya makes a satisfied noise. “I always liked Okteivia.”

“Liar.” Reivon huffs, suddenly playful. “You liked Octavia, huh?”

“Mm. My favourite, even.”

Reivon gasps, dramatically betrayed. “I never figured you for a player. Maybe you don’t need to use your brand new app I know you installed because I texted Lexa to independently confirm.”

Onya hums, perking up. The call cuts out and she frowns at her screen, poking at it with a huff. It lights up again and she drags her fingertip across the green icon. It beeps twice, trilling a jaunty tune, and then Reivon’s face appears. She’s in the bath, blowing bubbles in the waterline that halts just under her nose. She surfaces. “Surprise! FaceTime is a hell of a thing.”

“So it is,” Onya agrees. She stretches out on her bed, head resting on the pillow, and yawns.

Reivon makes a fond noise. “Hold the phone up babe, you’ve got a thousand chins at this angle.”

Onya rolls her eyes. She lifts up the phone and squints at her own tiny image in the bottom corner. “Better?”

Reivon waggles her eyebrows. “And then what?”

Onya blinks. “And then what what?”

“You’re so bad at this.”

Onya pillows her head on her arm. “I don’t see you doing any better.”

“A challenge? You know me so well.”

 _Do I_ , Onya thinks. _I’d like to_. But Reivon is wet and a little soapy and Onya finds herself enamored by the way her hair curls damp above the water, escaping its bun and natural straightness in little wisps. “Can I aid you in anyway?”

“You’ll think of something,” Reivon says, and her grip goes shaky and there’s a moment where Onya thinks she’ll drop the phone into the water but Onya rumbles at her in trigedasleng, all soft loving and rough possessive, whichever makes Reivon’s breath quicken and her head tilt back on the porcelain edge of the tub and her chest heave while the water quivers and sloshes.

 

After, Reivon kisses the camera, soft press of lips. She wipes the screen with the edge of her towel and curls up on the corner of her bed in her sweats and a shirt Onya left behind and reads from one of her old textbooks until Onya slips to sleep.

//

When Onya was sixteen, she walked through the marketplace with enough money burning a hole in her pocket for the meat pies she likes. She’s whistling and preening, a little, to be seen in her uniform and to have her sword at her hip. She pauses at a stall selling poultices and herbs and satchels of sage. “Grandmother,” she blurts, shocked. 

The woman squints at her, not a hint of recognition, and then she reaches out and presses her thumb between Onya’s eyebrows. She’s so much smaller than Onya remembers, hunched with age and deep lines in her face and Onya has to bend for her to reach, almost a bow. “I remember you,” she says. “The river girl.”

She winds a bracelet of long braided grasses around Onya’s wrist and waves away Onya’s attempt to pay. “Wait,” Onya says, before she loses her nerve. “You---my mother said you told fortunes.”

The woman shrugs. “Boys fulfil prophecies; we women make our own.”

“Please,” Onya presses, unsure why she suddenly, years later, has found her curiosity. She wants to tell the woman about how deeply her mother believes, how her father’s letters have become harder to read, the sickness wobbling his hand. How she remembers him tall and strong and standing straight and how she avoids going home to see how time has changed her faded memories. “Please,” is all she says, quiet. 

The woman pats her wrist. “You go first,” she says. “If that’s a comfort. You die first.”

A passerby jostles her and her hand drops from the counter. The woman disappears into the crowd, carried away by the river of movement swarming towards the parade route. “Before who?” Onya asks, calling out helpless into the sea of people. “I die before who?”

//

Onya knows Titus cares about Leksa. She wishes it weren’t a fact she has to make a conscious effort to remember. “He has decided I am an ally,” she tells Reivon on the phone in the early morning, lingering although she knows she ought to get up and wash her face and braid her hair. “It’s… tedious.”

“He sounds like a lot of fun at parties,” Reivon says. Onya sighs, long. 

“I have worries,” she admits. “There have been rumblings. No one can stay in power as long as Nia did and not have supporters. And it has taken… longer than I’d like to set up communications.”

“This _Time_ article says you’ve made a shockingly smooth transition.”

“Hm,” Onya says, and Reivon snickers. 

“You look good, babe. Except a little like you want to kill the baby you’re holding.”

“Who hands their baby to a stranger,” Onya protests, indignant. “Not even to Heda! To me!”

Reivon giggles again. 

“I,” Onya says. She hesitates. “I went to my village yesterday. It’s why I couldn't call.”

Reivon is quiet for a few seconds, waiting her out. Onya makes a little noise, frustrated. “How was it?” Reivon finally asks, and Onya exhales, relieved. 

“Odd. It--it doesn’t exist anymore.” She sits on her bed, one leg folded under her. She’s glad, suddenly, it’s not a video call. “Nia, she… it doesn't exist anymore.”

“Oh.”

“It was overgrown,” Onya offers. “It--burning can be good for the soil, sometimes.”

Reivon swallows. “What can I do?” she asks. “I don’t want to say I’m sorry, because that’s bullshit.” Onya frowns at her foot on the floor, her toes in the rug. She curls them up and stretches them out. “ _Onya_.”

“It’s better,” Onya says, abrupt. She softens her voice to explain. “It’s better, for us, to burn. To be trapped in the ground, it’s…”

“I remember.” She can hear shifting on the other end of the line, like Reivon is sitting up in bed or settling into a chair. 

Onya thinks about walking down the path to her parent’s house and the path barely visible under the long grasses. How the river looked smaller and shallower and her mother’s flowers were gone under weeds and crabgrass. How it took her half an hour to figure out where she thinks her house was and how she still isn’t sure she found the right place to lay the flowers and say goodbye to her parents and her brothers and her nieces. “ _You can’t go home again_.”

Reivon murmurs something down the line, Onya’s brain shorted out and failing to translate. She keeps talking, soft and easy and calming, until Onya’s breath hitches one last time and she calms. “Hey,” Reivon greets.

“Reivon,” Onya manages. 

“Hold on, let me---got it. You settled?”

Onya curls in a ball on her bed and tucks her pillow under her chin because no one can see her do it. “I am.”

“It’s for my gen ed class, so--just don’t judge, okay, I know it’s cliche.”

Onya presses a fist into her eyesocket until it hurts. The phone is hot against her cheek and she fumbles to make sure the charger is plugged in.

Reivon clears her throat. “You want a physicist to speak at your funeral,” she says. “You want the physicist to talk to your grieving family about the conservation of energy, so they will understand that your energy has not died.”

 

Reivon’s voice fades out. Onya hears her swallow, lick the moisture back into her tongue.

She has uncurled, she realizes. Stretched out and loose limbed and her chest rises and falls without conscious effort for the first time in a long while. “Thank you,” she murmurs, voice thick and drifty. “ _Ai…_.”

“Sshh.” Reivon’s voice is gentling. “I am sorry, you know.”

“ _Ai no_.” Onya’s hand slides down her face, the phone dragging on her cheek until it rests on the mattress.

“Go to sleep,” she hears Reivon coax, tinny from the distance and the angle. “You are not alone.”

//

They stayed in that shelter for two months before they got their first tiny shithole of an apartment. Onya figured out how to get them into school and how to keep them fed and and attended the gonasleng classes at night. She hasn’t been placed in a job yet and the hours creeping by in the day without Tris or Kostia or Leksa make her nervous, make her pace. 

She wanders the neighborhood. It settles her to map the streets in her head, to know what’s down the alleys and around the corners, and it eats the time where she’d otherwise be sitting on the floor staring at the wall and counting the seconds down. 

 

Once she sat on a bench in a deserted corner of a park with her head in her hands and tried to calm her mind, her heart racing for no reason, fighting to tuck the bad thoughts away. Someone sat next to her and she jerked upright, fully aware, the knife in her hand.

A homeless man peers at her. “You seem like you need this more than me,” he says. He’s holding a coffee out to her. 

Onya hesitates. It takes her a moment to find the right sounds on her tongue, words he will understand. “Please--I don’t need it.”

He thrusts it at her. “Life is hard. When you happen to have something someone needs, you have to stretch. And then when you need something, you can reach out your hand.”

“Life is hard,” Onya echoes. She takes the coffee and sips--gone cold and no cream, but she likes the bitter edge of it. She offers it back and he smiles. 

“I knew you were alright.”

They pass it back and forth, and Onya doesn’t have any money to give him but she does have an orange in her pocket and she peels it, the white bitter bits under her nails. They split it, the juice dripping sweet on their fingers and down their wrists. 

“Good luck,” he says, as she rises to leave, and she hesitates. 

“Thank you.”

There’s an army pin on the collar of his worn shirt under the bulky jacket that smells like sweat and unwashed body and he tosses her a salute as she leaves. 

 

Onya thinks about him, sometimes. How someone who had even less than she sat next to her while she struggled not to fall apart and gave her the last of what he had and didn’t expect a thing in return.

//

“ _You’re a target_ ,” Gustus grunts. 

Onya’s eyes flash. Leksa has been hers to protect so long she might as well have tucked Onya’s heart in her own chest. “ _I will not stand to the side and hide_.”

Gustus is a mountain; unmovable. “You are Heda’s right hand, everyone knows it.” Onya remembers him before he had the long scar down his face. He lost two children to Nia and is the only person Onya could have ever considered hiring for being in charge of Leksa’s personal security. “You stand next to her, and you’re making her twice as likely to be killed.”

Onya’s jaw works; she breathes hard through her nose. “ _Fine_ ,” she snarls. “Fine.”

 

Onya enters Leksa’s private quarters and leans on the wall with a glower. Leksa looks up from a sheaf of papers. “ _Did Titus say you couldn’t go to the homecoming dance?_ ”

Onya’s glower intensifies. “I’m glad your safety is so amusing to you.”

Leksa sighs. She sets her papers aside and links her hands on the table top, frowning slightly. “I assure you, it’s not a small worry.” She hesitates, then withdraws a small clear bag from underneath the pile of books by her elbow. It’s plastic, and inside a neat note has been tagged with a literal red flag. 

Onya comes closer and takes it, lifting it up to read it. Her face darkens and she feels her heart kick up, the fight response in her blood. “ _Who is responsible for this?_ ”

Leksa takes the death threat and tucks it away. “It was received early this morning. Gustus has posited that it’s regarding the address on Thursday.”

Onya’s frown grows. “We should cancel.” She sees Leksa’s face and growls. “ _Leksa_.”

“I will not have our government be dictated by fear and threats.”

Onya grips her shoulder, more beseeching than forceful. “That note knew the names of your security team. It named the route you would take to get to the capitol building.”

Leksa stands. “So we change it. _What is, is_. We adapt.”

“We have a leak.”

Leksa flicks her a look. “Obviously. We’ve tightened confidentiality and clearances.”

Onya scowls at the ground. “And you approved my removal from your team.”

Leksa touches her wrist, oddly hesitant, and then firm, her fingers curling. “You may not be standing next to me, but the only way you’re off my team is if you choose to leave it.”

Onya’s turns her hand to grip Leksa’s forearm in kind. “ _Never_.”

 

Onya wakes early. They’re moving under the cover of darkness, just before the sun starts to lighten the sky, a concession they practically had to beat Leksa over the head with, Gustus and Onya and Titus even, united in Leksa’s office with their arms crossed over their chests. Onya thinks maybe it was the surprise of seeing them in agreement that did it. There is a text on Onya’s phone she hasn’t swiped away because she likes the buzz and the reminder of it, a wish of luck from Reivon, the first thing she saw when she opened her eyes and reached her hand under her pillow for her phone.

She is on edge the entire time, anxious and irritable for Leksa to be so far out of her line of sight, and is only slightly settled when they enter the address room, the podium set up. She lurks to the side and paces while they do microphone checks and Leksa murmurs to herself and growls to herself as the press starts to trickle in, double checking the credentials hanging around their necks and glowering at the ones who dare to make eye contact. She’s so focused she can feel herself buzzing at the edges. 

Leksa comes near, ignoring the faint touches to her elbow by her personal bodyguards. “Onya.”

Onya straightens her shoulders. Leksa stands in front of her and they breathe together. “Leksa.”

“ _Be still_ ,” Leksa murmurs. “ _Have faith_.”

Onya smiles. She knows it is genuine because Leksa looks surprised. “ _I have known you before you had faith in yourself. I have always carried it._ ”

Leksa smiles back. Something eases in her shoulders. “Look what we have done,” she says, quietly awed. She takes a fortifying breath. “Look at what we have left to do.”

Onya lets the moment sit between them, the quiet depth of their devotion. “Heda,” she promises.

 

Onya listens to Leksa’s speech with half an ear. She’s heard it several times already, and many drafts. Speeches have never been particularly interesting to her anyway. She scans the crowd anxiously and tries to keep her fingers still by curling them around the hilt of the knife hidden in the small of her back and the two smaller blades up her sleeves.

What Onya remember most, afterwards, is that she didn’t see it happen.

//

There was a conversation, before. When Onya was lying in the grass with Reivon, naked and warm and still wet from her touch, the sweet smell of her heavy in the air and her leg hooked over Onya’s hip. Reivon touched her hair gently and traced the shell of her ear and Onya tilted her head into the caress and Reivon asked her, tentative, if she was afraid to return. “There’s something we say here,” she’d said. “You can’t go home again.”

Onya had thought about it for a long time, listened to Reivon breathe and the grass move and the traffic rumble by on the other side of the fence. “I hope,” she’d answered, slow and thoughtful and her sword hand still and peaceful on Reivon’s thigh, “that it is more than it was. That it is something new... something better for my people.”

“I hope so.”

“I have never felt at home here,” Onya admitted. “I almost would have prefered to stay and fight. But I go where Leksa goes.”

Reivon’s hand stilled in her hair. Her voice was carefully neutral. “What if you didn’t? Where would you go if you didn’t have Lexa?”

//

She turned her head to look into the crowd and she heard the shot and her brain automatically pointed her towards where it came from--two _gona_ have already forced him to the ground, weapons drawn and people scattering while guards flood the entrances. The noise is loud--the crack, but also the rush of shouting and screaming as people duck and flee. Onya hears Leksa’s voice ring out again, feels someone bump against her shoulder and she shoves them away automatically. She knows her brain goes quiet and calm when others get loud and staticky, and it doesn’t take her long to realize the threat is neutralized. She turns--

Leksa’s legs have buckled, her fingers white on the podium as she fights to keep her feet. She’s trying to speak to the crowd but the microphone has been knocked aside and the panic of the room is too loud. Onya makes it through with brutal efficiency, leaping up the steps and knocking aside Leksa’s bodyguard, Niko, to catch Leksa as she crumples. Leksa looks surprised, almost, her hand against the center of her torso, already wet and red red red. Leksa’s mouth opens. “ _Onya_ ,” she groans. 

“Shh,” Onya murmurs. She readjusts Leksa’s hand and orders her to press down. Reaches out and grabs Niko by the sleeve, yanking him close to stand between Leksa and the crowd, to act as a human shield while she slides her arms below Lesa’s knees and around her back and lifts her up to carry her away behind the curtain of the stage. “ _Stay awake_.”

Leksa gasps, arching up with the effort and a noise of pain. There’s blood running wet all over her teeth, and it bubbles with a noise when she sucks in air. “ _On---Onya--_.”

“ _The car,_ ” Niko is saying in Onya’s ear. He tugs at her sleeve, pointing down the hallway. “ _The hospital is only a block away._ ”

Onya looks down at Leksa, the paleness of her, unnatural and pallid, the rattle of her lungs on the left side. “ _Where is Alekka?_ ”

Leksa’s other bodyguard pokes her head around the corner. “ _Hir_.”

Onya pauses, just at the bridge of the hallway. She knows the more she thinks the more time she wastes but she forces herself to stop, and inhale, and think.

Alekka comes closer, grabbing Niko and tossing him to where she was to keep an eye out. “Onya?”

Onya makes her decision. The snap of clarity makes her every movement precise and calculated for efficiency. “Nikko. Get in the car and drive towards the airstrip. Radio ahead and saying Heda is being airlifted for medical care.”

To his credit, Nikko only blinks twice before turning on his heel and bolting, the radio already held up to his mouth. Alekka waits, calm and quiet and ready for orders. Later, Onya will have to tell them they did well, and that she is proud of them. But not now. 

“Gustus is at the back exit. We’re going to run. You go ahead and secure the hospital.” Onya fixes her in place with a look. “Who you choose to trust will affect if Heda lives or dies.”

Alekka swallows. Her chin lifts. She turns on her heel and sprints away. 

“ _You are so soft on the young ones_ ,” Leksa whispers. Her breath hitches and her chest spasms, her foot kicking out. “ _I forgot how soft you can be_.”

“Shh,” Onya says again. “Deep breath.” She turns Leksa over, Leksa letting out a low noise as she’s shifted into a fireman’s carry. 

“ _Take it--back_ ,” Leksa gasps, muffled against Onya’s back as Onya starts off on a jog, breaking into a quick footed run. “ _You’re awful and I hate you_.”

“ _Shot and still talking shit_ ,” Onya grunts, picking up as much speed as she dares. “ _What will it take to quiet you_?”

“ _More of this should do it---_ ” Leksa’s voice breaks, going breathy and barely there, and Onya can feel her start to slump.

She reaches the door and Gustus is there, his face drawn and pinched. He reaches out and--just for a second, Onya pulls away and snarls. But she stops herself, passing Leksa off as gently as they’re able. She meets Leksa’s eyes. “ _Ste yuj._ ”

“ _Ste yuj_ ,” Leksa says in barely a whisper, her eyes drooping. 

They run.

 

Gustus is like a freight train. Once he gets going, he barrels, and he doesn’t seem to notice the extra addition of Leksa to his payload at all. Onya couldn’t have done it like him. She thinks she would have figured it out somehow, but she’s always been quicker than she has been stronger, quick enough to keep pace with him and even range around him, going ahead to check corners and fading back. Most of the people, she knows, will have fled out the front, but they’re still two people covered in blood sprinting down a street, one carrying another person and the other an unsheathed sword. Even in Trigeda, it’s not a common sight.

The streets are quiet, though. The occasional person gaping from a window or across the street, but most people went to the address or went home to watch it, Onya figures. Most of the shops are closed, and the streets were shut to traffic the day prior in preparation. They make it to the hospital in record time, and Alekka is waiting. She’s doubled over with her hands on her knees panting, but she’s got a gurney standing by with two nurses, two doctors, and three nervous looking security guards. She stands when she sees them drawing near, and helps stabilize Leksa as they all lower her down onto the gurney. 

Onya moves with her sword up and her hand on Leksa’s ankle until they tell her she can’t go any further. She watches Leksa disappear behind the doors, off again to somewhere Onya can’t follow. Leksa’s blood is all over her, staining her clothing and starting to dry, stuck under her fingernails and tacky in the creases of her skin. She’s dripping it onto the tile. 

“Onya.”

Onya turns her head. She thinks Gustus might have said her name a few times before. He says something quick to Alekka and shucks his coat into the trashbin nearby. 

Alekka reaches out and stops short of touching Onya’s wrist. “ _Fos_?” It’s a bit of slang that sprung up while they were away, Onya knows, meant as an honorific, but it still makes her frown. She is a _fos_ , but not to her. She stands, abrupt. 

“ _I do not require assistance_.”

She goes into the bathroom and locks it. Strips off her jacket and her shirt and her pants and leaves them in a bloody heap under the sink. Scrubs her skin pink with the gritty soap and the tepid water and wads of paper towels. Uses her teeth to suck Leksa’s blood from under her nails and swallows it down. Walks out in her underwear and her bra, holding her boots, and Alekka’s eyes go wide as she scurries way, muttering about scrubs. 

Onya lets her boots thump to the ground. She sits next to Gustus and they stare straight ahead together. They wait.

Onya’s phone buzzes against her hip where she’d propped it. _Good luck!_ the text says, in clumsy trigedasleng. Reivon had signed it with a heart.

//

Nia had told Onya that she’d buried her family in an unmarked grave in the forest. That even if Onya had survived and made her way back to the village she was born in, she’d never be able to find them and put them to rest on a pyre. 

Still, Onya searched. She doubts Nia’s troops would have dragged the bodies a hundred miles and she walks around her village for miles into the trees. It’s been too long, she knows, but she looks, she looks, she looks.

Afterwards she’d sat in the center of what she thinks used to be her father’s bakery and closed her eyes. Tried to remember his face and the sound of his voice. Realized she’d forgotten her mother’s given name and what her younger brother used to sing in the garden. Stood up and dusted off her palms and knew there was no reason for her to ever come back to this empty place.

//

Onya stands outside the cell. Titus sits on the bench inside, his broken nose swollen and painful looking, a cast on his left arm. They say he fought the guards after he turned himself in, a lie that Onya will have to address at some point. At the very least, the _gona_ should be able to cook up a better story. He watches her watch him for almost ten minutes before he speaks. “ _It wasn’t supposed to be her_.”

Onya stays silent. She meets the eyes of the guard and after just a few seconds he nods, dipping in the faintest of bows, and leaves, his shoes clicking on the stone floor, the door creaking shut behind him. They are alone. “And who was it supposed to be?”

Titus looks surprised at her question. “You.”

The surprise jars Onya forward, her face twisted in fury. “I was nowhere _near_ her!” She takes a jagged, rough inhale, her fists clenched and her face up against the bars. “ _Traitor_.”

Titus stands. “ _You are the traitor._ It was your duty to keep her head clear. To keep her focused-- _she speaks with an accent! She loves a baga_!” He shakes his head at her, all that disapproval tinged with anger Onya remembers from when she had to sit in uncomfortable wooden chairs and listen to him describe the old rituals. Onya never was a particularly book attentive student. He takes a breath, expression flickering. “I provided the credentials, they changed the plan without me. It’s not your fault,” he adds. “The _Ascension_ wasn’t carried out properly. She is not what she would have been.”

Onya hisses. She speaks clearly, her accent perfect and polished and not a syllable with the dust of living in America left on them. “ _She is everything_. She was every inch Heda even before her Ascension.” Onya reaches through the bars, lightning-strike fast, and grips him by the collar. Her index finger is against his throat and she can feel the rabbit of his pulse, fast and uneven and so afraid. “ _You will not live to see Trigeda rise_.”

Titus looks at her like he pities her. His voice is quiet and his eyes are wet and tired. He looks older than anyone Onya has ever seen, that bone deep weariness she used to see in her own face when she looked in the mirror, lost and hopeless and waiting for the end. “Nia killed Trigeda years ago. _Some things can’t be unbroken_.”

//

Onya used to sit with her back against the wall and her hands hanging between her propped up legs and watch Leksa sleep. Not always, because she’s felt exhaustion like she’s never known since the first bomb went off and she can still smell the dust and the sharp blinding flare of heat on her face when she closes her eyes. But sometimes. When the day’s been long and hard and her eyes hurt from trying to read gonasleng and make it lay straight in her head. When she thinks of Tris when she doesn’t mean to and is surprised by the rip of grief in her chest. When she dreams of her father’s big gentle hands and how her mother cried when she left and never came back. 

 

Now she watches Leksa’s face, softened by sleep and the continued rise fall of her chest as she breathes and her fingers on the sheets and promises, over and over and over, until her chin hits her chest and she falls asleep for a few hours before she gets up and starts everything all over again: _I go first, Leksa. I die first_.

//

Onya sits at Leksa’s bedside, facing the door. Leksa is pale and still and quiet and every so often Onya has to touch her chest to feel her heartbeat through the bandages and the stitches, not quite ready to trust the beeping of the machines. 

Gustus comes in, sometimes. Onya can hear him telling Alekka to go home and take a shower and her mumbled refusal. “ _You look terrible_.”

“ _Sha_ ,” Onya agrees, too exhausted to argue. 

“ _The doctors say she is doing well._ ”

“ _Sha_.”

Gustus took her by the elbow, firm, and made her stand. “Go eat something.” Onya snarled, jerking in his grasp, and he shakes her very slightly. “I will watch _Heda_.”

Onya frowned, fierce and stubborn, but she’s wobbly and she’s tired and her stomach hurts and she lets Gustus gently steer her out and push her into the hall. Alekka points her towards the staff bathroom and helps her flip the sign to closed so she can use the shower stall. There isn’t any soap or any towels but the water feels good on her skin and she shakes herself once the tap is off, putting on scrubs that stick damp to her skin. Her hair's a mess of tangles and still hangs limp but she does feel better.

She sits on the bench and calls Reivon.

“Onya,” Reivon answers, sounding like she rushed to pick up. “Are you--how is Lexa?”

“Alive.”

Reivon waits a few more seconds. “And how are you?”

Onya swallows. “Alive.”

Reivon breathes, quiet. “You’re in the hospital.”

“They say she will wake up soon.”

“What can I do?”

Onya takes a breath, feels it shake into her lungs. “You are already doing it.”

“I miss you,” Reivon admits, and Onya’s feels her lips twitch, just for a second.

“And I you.”

 

Onya hesitates just next to Leksa’s bed. Gustus is standing above her, face shuttered. He watches the spike of the monitor. “She is all of us. _Her heart beats for Trigeda_.”

He leaves, pausing to grip her shoulder in solidarity, and she nods at him. Tells him to take Alekka’s post so she can go eat something. Takes up her seat by Leksa’s side and adjusts the way the top sheet is lying over her. Wonders who her own heart beats for.

 

Leksa wakes up. Her fingers twitch first, and then the slow blink of her unfocused eyes. Onya waits until she finds the rasp of her voice. “Onya.” Her palm turns up and Onya fits their hands together. 

“ _I’m here._ ”

//

Before they even kissed, they talked once in Reivon’s workshop garage. 

Onya sat quiet against the wall watching Reivon’s fingers on the handles of her tools and delicately strong around wires and the arm of her lamp as she adjusts her light, and Reivon was rambling, talking in a steady stream of calm nothing, the book she saw at the store this morning and what she had for breakfast and the movie she saw on television with Okteivia the night before.

“And then the main character was like--” Reivon pitched her voice low and mocking, “--’I think I’m just afraid to love’. Can you imagine?”

Onya blinked twice. “Why?”

Her sudden addition to the conversation made Reivon yelp, and jump, hand to her heart. “Jesus Christ. Have you been listening the whole time?”

“No.”

It made Reivon laugh a little. “Oh, of course. Do you really want to know about the shitty movie we watched because we couldn’t sleep?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I was delirious from not sleeping and also drinking dimestore tequila, but this guy just kept going on and on about how he was so afraid to feel anything and it was so fucking annoying I wanted to climb in the tv like the dead girl from The Ring and shake some sense into him.”

Onya parsed the nonsense out and tries to address the emotion behind Reivon’s words. It echoes something she’s heard her entire life. “Caring is weakness.”

Reivon snorted. 

Onya unfolded herself from the wall, standing and oddly curious. “You don’t think so?”

Reivon paused. She looked at Onya sideways. “Do you really want to know, or are you just bored?”

Onya was as surprised as Reivon was to find herself saying: “I want to know.”

“Well.” She put down her tools and turned to face Onya, leaning back on the worktable, elbows propped. “I think… that life is short. And everything is scary. So just… fucking get over it, and be happy while you can.”

Onya frowned. “You make it sound very easy.”

Reivon shrugged. “Maybe it is.” She waited a bit longer but Onya just stared at the floor, thinking, and Reivon turned back to her whatever she’d been doing. She flicked the radio on and the music thrummed soft and Onya thought her very astute to know that Onya didn’t want to talk just then--and very kind to accommodate.

It was almost three hours later than Onya spoke, rough and tired. “Life is hard.”

Reivon paused, still bent over. She didn’t turn, her voice quiet and gentled. “I think just surviving is exhausting. I think you have to make room for things that make life worth living.”

//

Onya glowers. “You are displeased with my failure.”

Leksa rolls her eyes from where she’s been forced to take bedrest. “Onya--”

“You think it’s my fault. That I could have stopped it if I’d been more vigilant.”

Leksa throws a pillow at her and then winces. “Fuck.”

Onya holds out a pill on her palm and stares deadeyed until Leksa huffs and swallows it with a glare and a grimace. 

“Onya. Stop being so dramatic.”

Onya draws herself up. “I am not… _dramatic_.”

Leksa rolls her eyes. “You need a break. Everything has been slowed down for my recovery. Gustus stands outside the bathroom while I shower. I could not be safer.”

Onya frowns. “You are sending me away,” she says, and she means it to be accusing and grouchy but it’s almost uncertain.

Leksa grips her hand. “ _Never._ But you deserve a break. Something for yourself. If you could go anywhere, where would you go?”

 

Onya gets in at three in the morning. She takes a cab to the house and inhales deep while she stands in the driveway, the sense memory hitting her. It makes her think of Leksa standing in the kitchen stirring at the stove and lying in her bunk looking at the ceiling and the garage, where she kissed Reivon and laid in the grass in the yard under the moon and felt Reivon shudder under her fingers. 

She finds Klark’s window and crawls through, catfooted, until she’s sitting motionless on the foot of Klark’s bed. Klark sleeps so deeply, she thinks, with a sigh. Hand tucked under her chin and her blanket twisted over her hips and eventually she stretches, her leg reaching out until her foot nudges against Onya’s leg. Her eyes fly open and she screams for a ludicrous amount of time while Onya rolls her eyes and is thankful she texted Okteivia and Reivon she’s here so they don’t barge in or call the police. 

“Does Leksa know you are this loud?” Onya asks when Klark finally stops to breathe, the blankets clutched to her chest and her lamp raised in her right hand.

“What the fuck,” Klark hisses, her eyes huge and wide. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” Her eyes dart from side to side. “Oh my god, did you kill everyone?”

Onya rolls her eyes. “They’re fine.”

Klark looks suspicious. “You told them, didn’t you. And then you climbed in here to freak me out.”

“You told Leksa to discuss her feelings for me,” Onya shoots back, feeling petulant and grumpy. “Consider this payback.”

Klark puts the lamp down and glares. “I hate you.”

“We will speak in the morning,” Onya says. Leksa has asked her to be nice, so she waves on her way out, enjoying the way it makes Klark’s eye twitch. 

 

Onya pads down the hall to Reivon’s room and is pleased to find Okteivia not in it, down the hall with Linkon in Onya and Leksa’s old room. Reivon is awake, sprawled out and peering at her, sleepy eyed. She scoots over to make room and Onya shucks her shoes and her socks, her pants and shirt. She slides under the sheets and tugs Reivon nose to nose by the hips. “Hello,” she greets, lazy smirking.

Reivon kisses her chin and tucks her face into Onya’s neck, humming. “Lo,” she mumbles, sleepy and fumbly. “I missed you.”

“Good.” Onya kisses her, once and easy, and wiggles down to nose into the juncture of Reivon’s throat and shoulder, licking out to taste her skin and suckling a mouthful against her teeth. 

“Mm,” Reivon says. She arches, slightly. “Fuck. I gotta get up early.”

“I can stop,” Onya teases, starting to pull away. 

Reivon grabs her by the back of her head and keeps Onya’s teeth on her. “Don’t you fucking dare.” Onya rolls on top of her, careful of her knees and her elbows, and drags her teeth across Reivon’s collarbones. 

“Tell me you missed me again.”

Reivon’s fingers gather her hair up away from Onya’s face before nudging her down, kicking the blankets away and canting her hips up. “I missed you,” she says, lifting up so Onya can slide her sleep shorts down. She huffs out a giggle when Onya tickles her ribcage, drawing her legs up around Onya’s hips. 

Onya rocks against her, fingers up the inside of Reivon’s thigh, seeking and gentle and curving the way Reivon likes. Reivon digs her nails into Onya’s back, yanking off her bra and drawing her chest down to Reivon’s mouth. The room grows hot, their sweat slicking between them, quiet panting and the creak of the mattress. 

“Say you missed me,” Reivon orders, her head thrown back and their chests pressed tight. “ _Onya._ ”

“ _Always_ ,” Onya promises, their foreheads leaned together, slick damp skin and dripping hair. “Always.”

 

Onya wakes when Reivon slips away from the circle of her arms. She gets to see what Reivon looks like first thing in the morning with sour breath and messy hair and stumbling her way to the shower while Onya yanks the curtains up and stays sprawled on the blankets in a sunbeam until Reivon returns. “I’ll be back later,” Reivon whispers, dipping to kiss her. “Go back to sleep.” 

Onya dozes, lazy and indulgent, and spends fifteen minutes stretching before and after a half hour shower. All that and when she goes into the kitchen, Klark is still asleep. She rolls her eyes and has breakfast on the front porch, sitting on a chair she drags out from the kitchen and watching the birds flit along the power lines and the few passing cars. She’s making more coffee when she hears Klark’s door creak open and her shuffling heavy steps. 

Klark comes at her at an angle, suspicious and narrow-eyed, and Onya pours her a cup of coffee, sliding it across the table and kicking a chair out for her. “I don’t know how you take it,” Onya says. She slides the ceramic sugar jar across the tabletop. “You seem like the sweet type.”

Klark adds a spoonful. “Why are you being nice to me?”

Onya looks away so Klark can add three more spoons of sugar. “This will be… a difficult conversation. There is no need to start off badly.” 

“Lexa told you to be nice, didn’t she.”

Onya feels her face twist, remembering. “Even worse than an order; a request. I have always found it difficult to deny Lexa her requests.” She looks up, catching Klark’s eyes. “She makes them so very rarely.”

Klark sits. She sips her coffee. “I see.” Onya waits her out; she’s patient and Klark is more than impulsive. She breaks first, easily. “I’m surprised you’re here, so soon after Lexa’s… injury.” Onya feels her own lip curl and Klark must see it, because she rushes to add: “Not that it’s your fault, I just--I’m surprised. That’s all.”

Onya frowns at the tabletop. “I am on ordered vacation,” she mutters. “The destination is of my own choosing.” She has a flash of memory, sudden and vivid; Reivon in her lap, naked, head tipped to the side and eyes closed in bliss as her hips rock. “Reivon is… fond, in my heart.” Klark smiles and Onya yanks the memory from her face back into her heart, flattening her tone even further. “I also need to talk to you. You need to make a choice.”

Klark blinks rapidly, something shuttering on her face. “Oh?”

Onya has never been one to mince words. “Leksa came… quite close. Her fight was nearly over.” Klark flinches. “These experiences provide clarity, but she’s stubborn. She will never ask you to leave your home.”

“Um,” Klark tries to say. Onya ignores her.

“It may not be fair, but it’s on you. Commit or break it off. You can’t keep talking every other day.”

Klark shakes her head, pulling back, her mouth set. “We’re friends.”

Onya has said all that she has meant to say. Reivon will be home soon and she’s never seen the point in arguing with stones. “You will never be friends.” She stands, carrying her own mug to the sink. “Make her happy or put you both out of your misery, I grow tired of her teenaged sighs.”

//

Onya remembers how Reivon sounded when she made her come for the first time, that almost shocked inhale and the way her legs shook and her eyelashes fluttered. Onya’s heart was still thumping irregularly and her breathing ragged and rough and she felt it. It wasn’t an abrupt spark or a lightning bolt, nothing like she’s seen in movies or read in the old poems. 

It was slow, and creaking, and it felt more like acceptance than surprise. Accepting that she wants more of this. More of happiness. More time with Reivon in her arms and her nose tickled by Reivon’s hair. 

 

A pen had fallen out of the pocket of Reivon’s pants and Onya picked up and twirled it in her fingers. Doodled her family’s old clan markings on Reivon’s ankle and tried not to feel too pleased about the look of it on Reivon’s skin, her claim in ink and fingerprint bruises. “What’re you doing,” Reivon asked, breaking away from where she’d been sucking bites into Onya’s collarbones. She peered down. “Are you trying to tattoo me? Because I know that means marriage, and I need a proposal before we tie the knot.”

“A gift in return,” Onya had said, turning her wrist to look at her newest tattoo in the moonlight. She thinks maybe she’ll tell Reivon later about the significance of having inked Onya twice, once using the old ways. 

Reivon’s eyes glinted, a little satisfied herself to see her namesakes on Onya’s wrist. “You sure you want that on you? Tattoos are forever.”

“I am satisfied,” is all Onya had said. But she looked at her wrist and her calf and what marks Reivin left that won’t ever fade and she’d thought, quietly and deeply and for the first time, about that. About forever.

//

Onya lays on the bed and watches Reivon get dressed. Reivon adjusts her outfit in the mirror and turns with a little twirl. “So?”

Onya reaches out and snags her by the hem of her blouse, pulls her close and topples her over, Reivon’s little yelp of surprise and Onya’s grunt when she’s hit with Reivon’s bony elbows and knees. She pushes Reivon’s hair to the side so they can kiss. “You look amazing.”

Reivon kisses the tip of her nose to make Onya’s eyes cross. “Flatterer.” She hauls herself up, neatly avoiding Onya’s protesting hands, and peers at herself in the mirror. Her lipstick is a mess and she sighs, reaching for a wipe.

Onya rolls onto her belly and watches Reivon reapply. “And there’s no way--”

“Yeah,” Reivon interrupts. “You are not getting out of my birthday party.”

Onya sighs. She grumbles under her breath in trigedasleng and Reivon rolls her eyes at her in the mirror. “Klark,” she mutters clearly, and Reivon rolls her eyes again.

 

It’s not as bad as Reivon thought. Linkon is there, for one, and she doesn’t dislike Okteivia. Klark avoids her and Onya ignores Bellamy and after they cut the cake Reivon smashes a slice on Onya’s face and eats it off, her face flushed with alcohol and good company. 

It winds down and Onya finds Reivon in the hallway, against the wall to rub gently at her knee. Onya kneels in front of her, nudging Reivon’s hands out of the way to massage from her calf to her upper thigh.

“Oh,” Reivon breathes. “You’re so good at that.” Her head tips against the wall, fingers playing in Onya’s hair. She draws Onya up to her lips. “Take me to bed?”

Onya links their fingers. Reivon leans on her side, a kiss to her shoulder through her shirt. “Of course.”

 

Onya wakes in the night and Reivon isn’t in her arms. She sits up. Her first drowsy thought is that Reivon is in the garage, but she sees her after a few blinks, sitting in her chair with a blanket around her shoulders, watching the moon. “Reivon?”

Reivon turns. She wipes at her eyes. “Hey. Did I wake you?”

Onya starts to stand, naked, but Reivon makes a protesting noise. She stands in Onya’s shirt and nudges her back down on her belly, Reivon sitting on the backs of her thighs. Onya pillows her head on her elbow and sighs, satisfied. She can feel Reivon’s fingers on the scars of her back, the twisted ugly mess of them, unable to feel the warmth of Reivon’s touch through the rough dead tissue. “What’s wrong,” she asks, eyelids drooping and making herself wake up a little.

“You leave soon.”

“Mm,” Onya acknowledges. She has been trying not to think about it. They’re quiet for a long time, and Onya lets her eyes droop close, enjoying the pressure and the weight and the warmth of Reivon’s body atop her own.

Reivon kisses the back of her neck and sighs into her hair. “You’ll remember me, won’t you?”

Onya cracks open an eye. “I have nerve damage, not dementia.”

Reivon snorts. She bites Onya’s ear with a mock growl. “Don’t joke, I mean it.” Her voice goes whisper soft, almost unhappy. Tentative in a way that’s unlike her. “Will you remember me when you’re with some warrior girl?”

Onya blinks. She sits up, Reivon tumbling off with a thump. “What are you talking about?”

Reivon sits up. “I mean---can you put a shirt on for this, it’s like I’m arguing with your tits.”

“We’re not arguing,” Onya argues. “And you’re wearing my shirt.”

Reivon rolls her eyes. She tucks the blanket about Onya’s chest. “I just mean--you know. I--”

Onya presses their foreheads together. Her hand grips the back of Reivon’s neck, suddenly sweaty. “I have no intention of any other girls.”

Reivon exhales. “You had no intentions for me.”

“Mm,” Onya agrees. She hesitates. “I am not a soft person.” A flicker of a memory touches the surface of her mind, echoing. “Some things can’t be unbroken.”

Reivon sighs. “You are so hard on yourself. Why are you so down on yourself?”

“I am,” Onya swallows. “I am not an easy person to love. I will not apologize, but I understand the difficulty.” She thinks through the conversation and her face creases, confused. “Are you--breaking up with me?”

Reivon yanks her closer. “No! Christ, I actually.” She sits back. “Okay no seriously, can you put some clothes on.”

Onya rolls her eyes. She stalks to her bag, tossing the blanket off, and finds a shirt that hangs long and a little bit loose. She pads back to the bed and sits crosslegged, looking at Reivon expectantly. 

Reivon clears her throat. She stares past Onya’s right shoulder, expression clouded in the dark. “I think--and not that I need your help, alright, I’m a fucking genius--but I could move, after I graduate.”

Onya blinks. “Move?”

“Not just because of you,” Reivon says, pointing a finger into Onya’s chest. “I’m not that kind of girl. I do my own thing.”

“Yes,” Onya says, impatiently waving it away because--obviously. “But, if you did. We could…?”

“Right,” Reivon agrees, quickly. “If you want.”

“I do.”

“Me, too.” Reivon flickers her eyes to Onya. “At some point, one of us should say it straight.”

Onya shifts. “English is my second language,” she tries.

It makes Reivon smile. “You fucking coward,” she mutters. Then she takes Onya’s hand in hers. “It’s official. After I graduate, I’m coming to Trigeda and we’re--we are official. Starting now.”

Onya doesn't hide her flicker of confusion well enough. She immediately pastes a flat look on her face but Reivon’s eyes have already narrowed.

“You thought we were already official,” Reivon concludes.

Onya looks to the side, shifty. 

Reivon presses her knuckles to her temple. “Since when?”

Onya mumbles something. Raven glares. “Since the hammock,” Onya repeats, a little louder.

Reivon rolls her eyes. “Oh my god.”

Onya huffs. “I said you had my heart! I made an American reference.”

“You made a _joke_.” Reivon looks up and addresses the ceiling. “I thought my girlfriend was a warrior princess, not an idiot.”

“I’m not a princess,” Onya mutters.

“Give me something romantic,” Reivon teases. “If it were raining I’d make you go outside and do it, no pants and all.”

Onya’s breath catches. She touches Reivon’s jaw and looks at the way she’s sprawled on the bed beside her, in Onya’s shirt and her toes in the moonlight, her hair a mess and her breath sleep sour. “I am many things. I have been a soldier and a refugee and an outlaw. I’ve killed people. I’m Trigeda’s, and Leksa’s, and yours. I feel real when you touch me.”

Reivon’s eyes go wide. “Shit,” she blurts.

“There’s a poem,” Onya tells her. “It used to be popular at joinings. About the sun kissing the trees and waiting every day for reunited lovers. Makes more sense in trigedasleng.” She kisses Reivon, teasing, high on the apple of her cheek. “I could wait a thousand days for you.”

“I was joking,” Reivon says, toppling Onya back and climbing into her lap to straddle her. She yanks impatiently at the hem of Onya’s shirt. “I can’t believe you’re a fucking sap and you’ve been hiding it so well.”

Onya lifts her arms, obedient. “First you want me to put on clothes, now you want me to take them off--”

“Shut up,” Reivon says, and kisses her. She slows it down, ramping lower and lower, gentling. Onya makes a questioning noise and Reivon leans back, drawing Onya up with just the allure of her presence and the promise of her kiss. “We have time, don’t we?” 

Onya was born in a river. She’s gone so far from the front steps of her village and and back again and she wears her history in ink and scars on the map of her body. She kisses Reivon, soft, hanging still in the rush of time and the rumble of the world. She doesn’t know if her heart as ever been so full.

“Forever,” she promises.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just so you guys know the notes for this chapter from my smurf were:
> 
> Raven is just like W8 4 ME BBY and Anya is like I W8 5EVER 4 U BBY
> 
>  
> 
> Anyway. Thank you everyone who read this and gave kudos and especially thank you to those who took the time to leave comments or send comments to my tumblr. I really really appreciate it and it helped me stay motivated. If you don't write yourself, I can't tell you how much it means to have someone leave a comment. It's honestly the best feeling.
> 
> Let me know what you think and catch me on tumblr @ sunspill


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